


Forged by Fire

by youdidnt



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Single POV, Slow Burn, Sword Fighting AU, inappropriate sword innuendos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-10-22 07:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10692816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youdidnt/pseuds/youdidnt
Summary: “Tell me, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “How come someone as talented as you was not competing in the tournament for the prince’s birthday celebration?”“I am not a duellist, my Lord,” Yuuri tells him. He cannot help the pinch of bitterness that creeps into his words.“And why is that?”The laugh that escapes his throat is humourless and breathy, and he spreads out his hands as if to say ‘Just look at me’.__Duelling is a form of art reserved only for nobility. With the help of Viktor, Yuuri plans to change that.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Someone: Imagine... Yuuri on Ice sword fighting AU  
> Me, someone who is trained in German longsword fencing: *sweats nervously*
> 
> I'm slowly trying to get back into writing on a regular basis and this was a huge step for me. On this note I want to thank and apologize to everyone who had to put up with me talking about nothing but this fic over the last three months. Thank you ♥

** Prologue **

**“… It is no use to be overly aggressive with striking, or to cut in at the same time against his strokes recklessly as if with closed eyes, for this resembles not combat but rather a mindless peasants’ brawl.**  
**There is thus a constant changing and transformation between the Before [Vor] and After [Nach], for now your opponent gets it, now you in return.”**  
**\- Joachim Meyer**

**__**

Yuuri almost drops the witch light when a loud banging sound echoes through the otherwise dead quiet of the forest. He scolds himself immediately afterwards; making his way through the woods at night is dangerous enough, doing so without a source of light and magic protection? Not the most foolish thing Yuuri ever did, but close.

After his heartbeat calms down, he tries to make out the source of the obtrusive noise, which is not difficult once he glances upwards; the sky is a sea of colours, red sparks turning into blues and then into greens and back into reds again, before they take on the shape of a couple, dancing across the night sky.

The head wizard truly outdid herself with the fireworks this time: The dancers blur into shapeless sparks that are moving around in circles until they are a blazing red phoenix, flapping its wings and roaring into the night. The cheers can be heard all the way into the forest, loud and boisterous, and Yuuri would love to be there at the castle right now; it is his best friend’s birthday, after all. Not just any birthday, but his sixteenth, which marks the day that makes him old enough to compete in official tournaments.

Alas, there is no place for a commoner at the birthday party of a prince.

The grass beneath Yuuri’s feet is still wet from the earlier rain and Yuuri has to thread carefully, trying not to slip. It takes him longer than usual to reach the clearing, but when he does, he feels like a soldier putting off his heavy armour after a long day of fighting as the weight of several stressful hours of work at Yutopia finally falls off his shoulders.

Gently, he puts the witch light on the ground and crouches in front of it.

“Would you give me a bit more light?” he asks. Nothing happens. If anything, the light dims a bit. Yuuri sighs; by now he knows all too well that some spells behave like their spellcasters. Judging by Mari’s earlier mood, it’s no wonder that her witch light is a bit fickle today.

“ _Please_?” Yuuri tries again. This time, he almost gets blinded by the glaring brightness emerging from the lantern, illuminating the whole clearing with white light. He swallows the insult down, almost too late, and manages a “thank you” through gritted teeth.

It’s not like he needs the light for what he is about to do, not when he knows the movements by heart, but the light and the shielding spell Mari cast upon it keep away some of the less amicable creatures of the forest. While he knows how to defend himself, his talent with the sword won’t do him any good if a harmful spirit were to approach him.

Scared of slipping on the wet ground _(again),_ he takes off his shoes and socks and places them next to the witch light, before he walks to the middle of the clearing. Determined, he pushes his eyeglasses up his nose and his hair out of his eyes, and pulls the sword out of the scabbard. The familiar weight pulls him down as he curls his right hand loosely around the grip, holding the pommel tight with his left.

A breath escapes his lungs as he relaxes into the position and spreads his legs apart, feet pointing into different directions in a ninety degree angle. He bends his knees and angles the tip of the sword towards the ground in front of him.

With one swift movement, Yuuri raises the weapon above his left shoulder and strikes at the air in front of him, taking a step forward in the process. He repeats the movement, alternating between a strike from the left and the right, until he feels like his body is used to it.

He forgot to stretch, he realizes as his arms feel almost as heavy as the sword they’re holding after only a few strikes. But he can make do without stretching; he will surely hate himself the following day, but that’s something he can deal with later.

The wet mud squelches beneath his feet as he takes another step, this time striking at his invisible opponent from beneath. He ignores the burning and continues with his practise, trying out different steps and strikes until his opponent has been killed several times over and Yuuri’s arms and legs are quivering with extortion.

He doesn’t stop there.

He practises different strike combinations and tries to mimic something he had seen a duellist do at the tournament earlier today, and fails. But he tries again.

He can feel the strength of the blow coming from every part of his body; his feet, as they hit the ground, his hips, turning with every step he takes, and his arms, holding the sword firmly and swinging it in practised movements.

His breast is heaving as he finally, finally, after how long he doesn’t know, lets the sword sink to the ground, resisting the temptation to let himself get pulled down with it. The world is a bit blurry around the edges and he thinks about tomorrow and how Mari will give him sour looks whenever his arms will shake when he picks up a tankard or a plate of food.  

The fireworks have stopped and the only sound filling the air is the wind, rustling through the leaves, and Yuuri’s heavy breathing.

… Until a third sound joins the other two. Yuuri whips his head around, tightening the grip around his sword, and stares into the direction where the sound of… clapping? is coming from.

“Bravo!” someone says and Yuuri flinches. “That was beautiful!”

Yuuri raises the sword immediately in an attempt to look braver than he feels.

“Sh- show yourself!” he says and tries his best to keep the quiver out of his voice. There aren’t many creatures that would find their way to a clearing in the forest at this time of day, even less that are able to speak, and Yuuri can’t think of one that is friendly.

Too late he sees a shadow in the corner of his eye, big and intimidating, leaping towards him. The creature is way too fast for him to react and he drops his sword in shock and screams – high pitched and frightened and Mari will absolutely never find out about this, mainly because he will be dead soon. He gets thrown to the ground and the beast - a wolf, maybe? But since when do they speak? - covers Yuuri’s body with his own and… licks his face.

“What…?”

His eyes open and he moves his arms from where he had tried to shield his face with it, only to find himself face to face with a… with a dog. A very friendly looking dog. Yuuri tries to push himself up, elbows sinking deeper into the mud, and looks the dog up and down. He has never seen a breed like this before. It looks very different from the mutts roaming the streets of Theussa: Its fur is trim and soft, as if someone brushes it on a regular basis, and its eyes are having a healthy shine to it. Its general appearance screams purebred and Yuuri can’t help but wonder what a dog like this is doing in the forest at this time of day.

“He won’t hurt you. I think he couldn’t, even if he tried,” the voice from before tells him. As if to underline his owner’s words, the dog licks a wet strip across Yuuri’s face.

“Makkachin,” the owner laughs. “Get off that poor boy.”

The dog obliges, but Yuuri doesn’t get up from his position and continues to sit in his puddle, wet and uncomfortable and utterly confused.

“You are… human,” he observes after looking the man up and down.

“There are some people that might tell you otherwise, but I assure you I am,” the man says. Yuuri can only make out his silhouette against the harsh light, but he can hear the grin in his voice.

“Here, let me help you,” he says and offers Yuuri a hand. He takes it.

“Thank you,” Yuuri mutters and searches the ground for his sword. Which he dropped in fear, he belatedly realizes. How embarrassing… and also something that could have been fatal. What if his attacker hadn’t been a dog, but something dangerous, intending to kill him? It’s not a thought he wants to dwell on for too long.

“Are you looking for this?” the man says, holding up what can only be Yuuri’s sword – he would recognise the bumps and rust-covered blade everywhere. Still, it is his first and only sword, found in an abandoned corner on the castle grounds, probably thrown away carelessly by a soldier in favour for a newer and better sword, and Yuuri wouldn’t give it away for anything.

He takes it and places it in the equally worn-down looking scabbard that his mother had made for him out of old leather remnants, and finally takes in the stranger’s full appearance. And almost falls back on the ground again right then and there, because apparently being attacked by a dog hadn’t been embarrassing enough.

“Lord Viktor!” he yelps and does a curtsy so pathetic that he’s surprised Viktor is not breaking out into laughter. Suddenly he is painfully aware of the way he must look: Old cotton clothes soaked through and muddy from where the dog had thrown him to the ground, face red from exercising and his hair probably looking inviting to every bird searching for a home.

And how, _how_ , did Yuuri not recognize him before? The witch light is bright enough to make out the characteristic hair, long streaks of liquid silver held in a messy ponytail, a few lose hairs falling into his face. Even more eye-catching are the pink and purple robes: They make Viktor stick out like an exotic bird against the dirty greys and browns of the woods. Now that Yuuri is paying attention, he can even see the emblem of house Nikiforov above Viktor’s chest; a small shield with a horned bear inside.

“So you know me!” Viktor laughs and _oh_ , what an understatement knowing him is. Ever since Yuuri had seen his first tournament, dragged there begrudgingly by Phichit, the name Viktor Nikiforov had burned itself into Yuuri’s heart and carved into his soul, igniting a passion that had yet to burn down. After that, he had watched every tournament that was hold in Theussa, hopeful of seeing Viktor there.

He always was. And he would always win.

“And what may I call you?”

Yuuri bristles and curtsies again, this time with more grace, not almost toppling over.

“Katsuki Yuuri, my Lord,” Yuuri tells him. “It is an honour to meet you!”

“Is it, now,” Viktor drawls and eyes Yuuri up and down with a smile reminding Yuuri of the several animals living in this very forest - and it is not the squirrels he’s thinking of. His gaze stops at Yuuri’s face and it takes everything for Yuuri not to flinch, but to stay proud and tall, even as Viktor reaches out and his fingers dance gently across his cheek.

“H-hey!” he stammers when his glasses are snatched from his face. Being without them makes him feel more vulnerable, the world turning into one big blur in front of him, as if he were viewing it from under water. Viktor’s sharp edges turn into splotches of pink and purple and white and grey and Yuuri has to squint at him to see how Viktor is putting his glasses on.

“I have never seen one of these in action,” Viktor comments, taking the glasses off and putting them back on again. “Odd, I don’t see a difference. Do you wear them for aesthetic reasons only?”

“No,” Yuuri tells him, resisting the urge to snatch his glasses out of Viktor’s hands. “They are enchanted to adjust to the eyes of the person wearing them.”

“So you cannot see very well without them, I presume?” Viktor says, waving a hand in front of Yuuri’s face.

In this very second Yuuri realizes that Viktor Nikiforov might be a bit of an arse.

“I cannot,” Yuuri agrees, giving the hand an annoyed look. “But that doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

“This is remarkable!” Viktor exclaims, ignoring Yuuri. He twirls, trying to look at as many things as possible through the enchanted glasses, turning his head up and down and back up again, then to the left and back to the right. It reminds Yuuri of a very confused owl.

Yuuri has no other choice but to stay frozen on the spot, feeling more uncomfortable with every passing moment, and to watch the obscure shape that is Viktor Nikiforov moving in front of him. He doesn’t dare to speak up; Viktor is a Lord, after all, son of one of the wealthiest and most influential people in the land of Eurys, neighbouring country and trusted ally of Yuuri’s own home country, Asu. On top of that, he is one of the best duellists in all the four kingdoms and certainly not someone Yuuri wants to antagonize.

 “Do you think they work on dogs, too?” said best duellist interrupts Yuuri’s train of thoughts.

“I don’t think-“

Before Yuuri has the chance to finish his sentence, Viktor crouches in front of Makkachin and places the glasses on the dog’s nose. At least, that’s what Yuuri thinks Viktor is doing.

“What do you think, Makkachin?” Viktor asks. According to the following silence Makkachin doesn’t seem to be very impressed by it.

“He _does_ look smarter, though,” Viktor comments.

“I wouldn’t know,” Yuuri mutters, not meaning for Viktor to hear. He must have, though, because Viktor quickly stands up and places the glasses back on Yuuri’s face. Yuuri lets out a sigh of a relief as the world shifts back into focus - and Viktor’s devastatingly handsome face with it.

“Tell me, Yuuri,” Viktor says as he moves the glasses on Yuuri’s face until he seems to be satisfied with how they look, and takes a step back. “How come someone as talented as you was not competing in the tournament for the prince’s birthday celebration?”

“I am not a duellist, my Lord,” Yuuri tells him. He cannot help the pinch of bitterness that creeps into his words.

“And why is that?”

The laugh that escapes Yuuri’s throat is humourless and breathy, and he spreads out his hands as if to say ‘Just look at me’.

“I am a commoner,” he says as if that explains everything. And it does, or at least it should, but Viktor continues to give him that confused look, forefinger pressed to his lips, as if Yuuri were a particularly tricky riddle that needs to be solved.

“A very talented commoner with the potential to be an even more talented duellist,” Viktor says.

In this very second Yuuri decides Viktor Nikiforov might be _a lot_ of an arse.

 “With all due respect, my Lord,” he says louder than intended. Makkachin looks up from where he had been digging a hole and whines questioningly.

“But are you mocking me?”

Viktor gapes at him, before he says “No, I can assure you I am not. Why would I?”

Not in his wildest dreams had Yuuri ever imagined that he would stand in a forest clearing one night, face to face with his idol.

And never had Yuuri guessed that a situation like this would make him so angry. It is the sincerity in Viktor’s voice that infuriates Yuuri even more, makes him feel downright… insulted.

 “My Lord,” he says as calmly as possible, “you should know that it is impossible for me to compete in a tournament! I know there is no law stopping me from doing so, and I know that I am not bad with a blade, but it would be preposterous of me to think I could take on someone who has been learning how to wield a sword since they can walk. And even if, by some chance, I would ever stumble upon enough gold to pay a teacher, I wouldn’t be able to find one willing to take a commoner as an apprentice, out of fear of being ridiculed. So unless things have changed since I entered the forest only mere hours ago, I beg of you not to taunt me like this.”

It isn’t until after he’s finished Yuuri notices how loud his voice has gotten, and how he had almost screamed his last sentence at Viktor - Viktor Nikiforov, a Lord. Someone whom he should pay nothing but the utmost respect.

The colour rises immediately to his cheeks at the realization, anger replaced with fear.

“I apologize,” Yuuri says, bowing deeply. “I stepped out of line.”

And he really did, didn’t he? Back talking a Lord is a dangerous business in all kingdoms alike and Yuuri could think of at least four Lords who would have his head for this. Viktor, however, doesn’t seem to be the kind; he has the audacity to look almost sheepish.

“Ah, was I being insensitive again?” he asks, corners of his mouth turned upwards. Yuuri wants to lie and tell him he was not, reassure him that it was Yuuri who didn’t seem to know his place, but Viktor holds up one single finger and shushes him.

“It is me who should apologize then, not you,” Viktor says. “You are right, of course. I had forgotten how hard it is for someone like you to become a duellist.”

Yuuri blinks.

“It is a shame, though. Keeping someone like you from the tournament grounds… to think of what you could do with proper training…”

“I asked you not to mock me,” Yuuri mutters, unwanted anger rising inside of him again. His whole body tenses when Viktor grabs his shoulders and forces Yuuri to look at him.

“I promise you, I am not,” Viktor says, the blue of his eyes swallowed almost completely by his pupils. “You say you don’t stand a chance against someone with proper training, I say you do. You just need to work twice as hard as everyone else.”

“And even then I can never be a duellist,” Yuuri sighs and takes a step back in order to escape from Viktor’s touch. It is no use; Yuuri can still feel Viktor’s gaze on him, almost as intimate as the touch, if not all the more so, and he has to look away.

“It is getting late,” Yuuri says. “I should probably head home.”

His mother is probably already starting to worry, to the point where not even Mari’s words, laced with gentle magic, are able to stop her from doing so.

“Ah,” Viktor says and the sheepish look is back on his face. “About that. I was hoping you could show Makkachin and me how to get back to the castle?”

Yuuri looks at him for a moment, dumbfounded, before the meaning of Viktor’s words hits him.

“I - of course,” he replies. “Let me just…” he walks to where the witch light is still shining radiantly and puts on his socks and shoes, picking up the lantern afterwards.

“If it’s no bother to you, could you please tone it down a bit?” he asks the witch light. This time, it obliges automatically and dims down to a less blindingly brightness.

“Astonishing,” Viktor says, suddenly standing behind him and making Yuuri jump. “Do you possess magic?”

“I don’t,” Yuuri shakes his head. “But my sister does. She’s also the one who enchanted my glasses.”

“She must be truly powerful, then,” Viktor muses. Yuuri grimaces, thinking about Mari wasting away her live at the inn, serving drinks and being stared at by older men.

“She is,” he only says and walks towards an overgrown path, invisible to the unknowing eye. Viktor doesn’t press the subject and Yuuri is grateful for the momentarily silence.

“May I ask you what you were doing in the forest, my Lord?” he asks Viktor, expertly navigating through the maze of bushes and thick branches that he got to know by heart over the years. “At night? During the prince’s birthday party?”

An embarrassed laugh escapes Viktor’s throat. If Yuuri were to turn around, he could see Viktor’s cheeks colouring in embarrassment.

“Well,” Viktor drawls, taking his time before he continues. “I heard there were going to be fireworks and Makkachin isn’t particularly fond of them, so we took a walk. But then we got lost.”

It takes Yuuri a few seconds to take in the information.

“You were taking a walk,” he repeats, sounding incredulous. “At night. In the forest. Without a light source or a spell to protect you.”

“Yes?” Viktor says. “You make it sound like it is something dangerous to do.”

Yuuri stops in his track to turn around and openly gape at Viktor.

“Oh,” Viktor breathes and clears his throat. “ _Oh._ Okay. We’re not doing that again, got it. Anyway! Nothing happened? I saw this little light of yours, which is quite bright if I may add, and got curious. So I walked towards it.”

Yuuri barely resists the urge to slam his forehead against the bark of a particularly thick oak tree they’re walking past.

 “Lord Viktor!” he exclaims. “This could have been anything! A will o’the wisp, or some kind of spirit, or – or something even worse! And you just decided to _\- to walk towards it_?”

“Now I feel stupid,” Viktor mutters and buries his face in his hands. When he looks up again, his face is red, but a small, soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“But I found you instead, didn’t I?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, only to close it again, hates how he feels a thrill at the words.

“Let’s just keep moving,” he murmurs.

 

The castle sits on top of a small hill and looms above the city of Theussa like a watchful spirit.

As soon as it gets into view, Viktor says “I think I know my way from here.”

And he bows – Lord Viktor Nikiforov bows – before Yuuri, and not for the first time Yuuri thinks that it might not be the actual Viktor, but a desire demon, who stumbled upon him at the clearing. He truly hopes he is wrong; if the demon were to propose a deal in the shape of Viktor, Yuuri thinks he would gladly sell his soul.

“Thank you, Katsuki Yuuri,” Viktor says, still bowing.

“Anytime,” Yuuri answers stupidly, sounding a little out of breath - He blames it on the detour through the woods. Before he can say his goodbyes, Viktor unexpectedly reaches for his mud-speckled hand and squeezes it.

“The next time we will see each other, I want you to show me what you’re capable of. What you’re really capable of. Show me I wasn’t wrong.”

And how, _how_ , can Yuuri possibly say anything but “Yes, I promise” when Viktor looks at him with that smile of his, unravelling the world at the edges to the point where Yuuri wonders if Viktor had broken his glasses earlier?

Viktor lets go of Yuuri’s hand, but not before giving him one last smile, brighter than the witch light could ever be,  and turns around, Makkachin wagging his tail happily at his side.

**__**

Yuuri tries to keep his promise, absorbing as much theoretical knowledge as possible from watching the guards and trying to apply it in his little clearing.

But the memory of their encounter gets blurrier with each passing day until Yuuri isn’t sure if it really happened at all. A familiar knot begins to tighten in Yuuri’s stomach and when he lies awake at night, every fibre of his body heavy and begging for sleep, his mind stays awake, the question “What’s the point?” cursing through his head in a never ending loop.

He misses Phichit’s very first tournament as a duellist, mumbles up a bad excuse about being sick when Phichit stops by to make sure that he’s okay, and doesn’t miss the brief flash of hurt on his friend’s face. The look is gone within the blink of an eye and Phichit assures him, several times, that he isn’t angry, before he proceeds to tell Yuuri everything that transpired at the tournament down to the last detail.

The guilt still gnaws on Yuuri and threatens to swallow him whole at the mention of Viktor’s name. He has to excuse himself to flee to a small storage room, where he hides in between brooms and dirty pillows, thinking this is exactly where he belongs. When he presses his fist against his mouth to muffle the sobs, all he can think of is how he not just failed the only person that only ever asked him to be his friend, but possibly also the only one that saw more in him than just a commoner.


	2. Chapter 1: Vor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> Thank you so, so much for your comments and kudos, they are what keeps me going when university is trying to kill me.  
> Special thanks to [Renaissance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance) for proofreading ♥♥
> 
> Just a little side note: Joachim Meyer is one of _the_ most famous swordsmen of the 16th century. If you look up German longsword fencing, you will read his name quite a lot and basically almost everything we know today is because of him.

**Chapter 1- Vor**

**“With the word before [vor] as has been told before, it is meant that you with a good first strike shall close in without fear or hesitation and strike at the openings, to the head and to the body, regardless whether you hit or miss you will confuse the opponent and put fear into him, so that he does not know what to do against you”  
\- Joachim Meyer**

  _“Wow,”_ Guang Hong gushes and turns his head several times, his eyes big and shimmering with awe. “I’ve never seen so many nobles in one place!”

“How do you even remember all of their names and titles?” Yuuri asks as he takes a look across the tournament grounds.  Faintly, he can make out the embroidered emblems on people’s armours, but he has no idea what they mean or who they belong to, with a few exceptions. Of course he recognizes the most important ones, kings and queens and princes and princesses (and he tries not to freak out too much about being in the same place as them) but there are also several dukes and duchesses and people with other titles Yuuri doesn’t remember.

“I don’t,” Phichit, who has already put on his armour and looks ready to fight, admits cheerily. “I just hope they introduce themselves to me before we talk and if they don’t… well, I improvise.”

A noise of anguish escapes Guang Hong’s throat.

“But your Highness! You are to be king one day, you should know this!”

“My father is in best health, so I’ve still got plenty of time to learn. And until then I’ve got you and Leo, don’t I?”

Very few people are immune to Prince Phichit’s winning smile, but as one of his most trusted servants, Guang Hong has had plenty of practise. He crosses his arms and makes a face.

“You know I will do everything in my powers to help you, and so will Leo,” he replies. “But we won’t always be there to rely on.”

“But you are right now.”

Phichit is still smiling, easy and relaxed, as if he was not about to fight the best duellists in all of Eurys, all while being watched by the soon to be king of the country.

Yuuri is still unable to believe his luck, trying to handle the fact that he is at Omere, capital of Eurys, and about to witness what is going to be one of the greatest tournaments of the century; he has never left the country before, hardly ever left Theussa, but here he is, so far away from home for the celebration of Prince Jean-Jacques’ coronation.

Convincing his parents to go hadn’t been easy, talking Phichit into taking him with even less so, and he still thinks he’s going to wake up any second now. He pinches himself, just to make sure.

 “Who is this?” Phichit asks and points at a dark-haired duellist who is walking past them.

“You honestly don’t even know the names of the people you’re going to compete against?” Guang Hong asks, exasperated.

“To be fair, it is a lot of names and titles,” Yuuri says with an apologetic smile, earning himself a sore look from Guang Hong.

“I know the most important ones,” Phichit defends himself. “I know that Prince Otabek Altin of Allash is going to compete, and Lord Viktor Nikiforov.”

He grins at Yuuri. Yuuri chooses to ignore him.

“Is Lord Mikhail Nikiforov’s ward old enough to compete?” he asks instead. Guang Hong shakes his head.

“No, he’s too young, and it might be House Nikiforov’s luck; I’ve heard Yuri Plisetsky is very vocal in his dislike of Prince Jean-Jacques and I doubt House Nikiforov wants to start a feud with their future king during a tournament in his honour.”

“You have to admit, it would be hilarious,” Phichit says. Guang Hong tries to look stern, but even he can’t suppress a snicker at the thought of a 15-year-old spewing profanities at the future king.

“Most contestants are only Dukes from all over Eurys, sworn allies to house Leroy, but you shouldn’t underestimate them, your Highness,” Guang Hong tells him in a tone that suggests this is going to be one of his lectures.

“They’re all competent duellists who have earned their right to be here today. You see this man, for example?” He points at a blonde man who is wearing one of the most revealing (and probably most impracticable) armours Yuuri has ever seen. “That’s Lord Giacometti. Do not let yourself be fooled by his easy demeanour…”

“I’m going to see how Leo is doing,” Yuuri interrupts, pointing towards the duellists’  tents where the second of Phichit’s servants wanted to do some last-minute check-ups on his prince’s sword. He doesn’t miss the desperate look on Phichit’s face, or the way he mouths _don’t leave me._

“Good idea,” Guang Hong nods. “He should hurry with the sword, the tournament is going to start any minute now. As I was saying, Lord Giacometti…”

Yuuri shoots his friend a sympathetic look before he turns around. Phichit’s tent is easy to spot, the bright orange and the embroidered phoenix instantly striking the eye.

More and more duellists are emerging from their tents, all wearing the traditional leather harnesses which are painted and decorated individually to represent the duellists’ houses. A few chest pieces even sport the emblem of house Leroy, as a token of respect to their king.

The armour would be useless in a real fight, not providing enough protection against a killing blow, but it gives the duellists the advantage of moving around freely. Not seriously injuring the opponent when they are only wearing the most basic of protection is a tricky business, but it is as much part of the art of duelling as anything else.

“This is absolutely ridiculous, Viktor.”

 Yuuri freezes in his tracks. The voice is unfamiliar, but the name is not.

“I am much better than most of them and you know it! That prick of a future king knows it! It’s only one more year until I’m of legal age. Why am I not allowed to compete, then?”

A mere foot away from where Yuuri is ducking behind a weapon rack, Viktor Nikiforov is leaning against a wall, taking a bite out of an apple, and Yuuri forgets how breathing works.

It’s been almost three years since their encounter and Yuuri’s doubts about it just being a dream had only grown over the years; it wouldn’t have been the first time for Viktor to play a major role in his daydreams, after all.

But now, after seeing him in all his dashing glory, the memory is as vivid and colourful as the fireworks had been on that particular day.

“Because it is the law of our kingdoms and it won’t make an exception for anyone, not even for you,” Viktor simply says.

 His armour is of dark leather, Yuuri presumes the best Eurys has to offer, with parts dyed a deep purple. All that’s missing is his helmet, which Yuuri finds after a few searching looks in the hands of someone who must be Yuri Plisetsky, gripped with such force that Yuuri is surprised it doesn’t combust under the pressure.

“Fuck the law,” the boy grumbles.

“Cheer up, Yuri. It’s only one more year.”

It’s confusing, to hear his name like this, and Yuuri’s gaze automatically moves back to Viktor, even though he knows it’s not him that Viktor is talking to. Viktor still looks as dashingly handsome as he had back then, the only change being his hair, cropped short now. While Yuuri silently morns the loss of the long, silver spun hair, the new haircut suits him just as well, accentuating his strong features in a way that makes Yuuri’s skin feel too tight.

 “Who is it that I am going to fight first, again?” Viktor asks with a voice that suggests he never knew who he was going to fight to begin with, throwing the apple core over his shoulder.

“Your creepy friend,” Yuri mutters.

“Ah, _Christophe_ ,” Viktor says with a fond smile. “Wish me luck.”

Yuri scoffs.

“As if you need it.”

Too late Yuuri notices the change in Viktor’s posture, and the way his eyes are widening.

Too late Yuuri ducks behind a tent, even though he knows he’s been spotted. It’s foolish, Yuuri tries to tell himself, Viktor doesn’t remember him, not after three years. And why would he when he meets dozens of people that are more important than Yuuri on a daily basis?

And why, then, is Yuuri hiding?

 “ _Yuuri?”_

This time, there’s no confusion as to which Yuuri he is talking to.

But Yuuri is a coward, always has been and always will be, and he thinks about witch lights in secluded clearings, dogs the size of wolves, and promises, made in the dark but never fulfilled, and he turns around, ducks into Phichit’s tent and hides from the world.

__

The clouds are blocking out the sun, but Yuuri sweats as if he was one of the contestants. He’s only watching, though, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet from where he’s standing on one of the grand-stands. Next to him are Leo and Guang Hong, who are both equally entranced by the fighting, shouting encouragements or groaning in disappointment every now and then.

The crowd cheers loudly as one of the duellists brushes his opponent with his sword, but the other man manages to avoid the blow, if just barely. It’s hypnotising, watching the men move around each other like they’re following the steps of a choreography, and Yuuri can’t take his eyes off them.

“They’re good,” Leo comments, pushing a few long strands out of his face. “But they won’t stand a chance against Prince Phichit.”

“Who are they?” Yuuri asks without looking away.

“The one in black is Lord Michele Crispino and the one in blue Lord Emil Nekola” Guang Hong explains with the patience of a saint. “Their parents own neighbouring duchies in the western part of Eurys.”

The sound of swords clashing together can be heard, drowned out almost completely by the cheering. Michele lunges before aiming a particularly daring strike. Emil moves back and stumbles, looking distressed from beneath his helmet, while Michele probably wears a self-satisfied smirk on his lips and pushes the other man even further to the outer side of the area.

Pride has no place in a tournament as it is almost always followed immediately by falling. Yuuri knows this, and Emil seems to know it, too.  Michele tries to hit Emil again, but this time his sword lands too far to the left, leaving an opening. Emil deflects the blow effortlessly and pushes the other sword away, having free access to Michele’s chest now, and he presses his blade against Michele’s collarbone, dipping into the black leather.

It was a stupid mistake, one that could have been avoided if Michele hadn’t been so sure of his victory.

“I yield,” Michele says, letting his sword fall to the ground, and the crowd goes wild.

Yuuri’s gaze falls on Prince Jean Jacques who is sitting… no, posing on his throne, clapping half-heartedly. He is wearing a bored look on his face and a thick purple cloak adorned with jewellery that is most certainly worth more than everything Yuuri has possessed and will possess until his dying day. Since the tournament is in his honour, it is expected of him to merely observe and only to fight the tournament’s winner, and by the looks of it he is not too happy about it.

When it is Phichit’s turn, Yuuri joins the cheers, shouting Phichit’s name from the top of his lungs. Phichit is fast, several movements turning into one fluid motion, and it takes only a few minutes until his opponent is yielding with Phichit’s blade hovering less than an inch above his head.

He wins the next fight, and the other after that, too, but everyone knows it is over when he is to fight Viktor. Viktor’s previous fights hadn’t lasted longer than a minute each, with the exception of Prince Otabek, who had been able to draw it out for almost five minutes before he, too, succumbed to Viktor’s swift blade.

“Ah,” Leo sighs. “It was good while it lasted.”

“He can still win!” Guang Hong mutters, but he doesn’t sound very sure of his own words. Leo pats him on the back.

Even Jean Jacques sits up straighter when Viktor enters the grounds; he is wearing self-confidence like a second skin and undoes the crowd with nothing more than a bright flash of teeth.

Yuuri grits his teeth in shame as he notices how well Viktor’s charm works on him, too; a simple smile is all it takes to make Yuuri’s heart flutter like a caged bird in his chest and Yuuri feels a traitorous flush creep up his neck. His only solace is that Phichit isn’t here to make fun of him for it, but down there facing Viktor, ready to give it all he has.

Which is not even close to being enough.

“I yield,” he says, still cheerful despite the blade pressing against his throat. Guang Hong sighs, but he can’t keep the awe out of his eyes. His voice is a mixture of admiration and annoyance.

“He is so amazing.”

“I don’t think there’s anyone in all of Eurys who could beat him,” Leo agrees.

“If not even in all the four kingdoms,” Yuuri says, earning himself a nod from the two servants.

Phichit joins them on the stands not much later, and he is not looking disappointed at all.

 “There is no shaming in losing, your Majesty,” Guang Hong says. “You fought bravely!”

“I’m glad it is Viktor I lost to,” he only says, the usual bright smile on his face. “So I can at least say I lost to the best.”

What he doesn’t say is that lasting a bit longer would have been nice, though, and that there’s also no shame in winning. Yuuri hears it nonetheless and reaches out to squeeze Phichit’s shoulder. The answering smile is soft, so very different from the one before, and that’s how Yuuri knows he understands.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, it is Viktor who wins the tournament and, ultimately, the honour to fight his future king. For the first time that day, Jean Jacques looks ecstatic, ready to show off his skills.

“I was hoping it was you who would win,” the king-to-be says. He pushes off his gown and walks down the steps of his tribune. It is one of the most dramatic things Yuuri has ever seen.

The people eat it up nonetheless, and screams of “King JJ!” can be heard from everywhere.

“It is an honour,” Viktor says, getting down on one knee.

“Oh, this is going to be interesting,” Leo whistles.

“Is it?” Yuuri asks, confused. “But you just said that there’s no one in all of Eurys who could beat Viktor.”

“No, there isn’t. But beating Jean Jacques in a tournament held in his honour is as good a challenge for the throne as any.”

“Besides,” Phichit adds. “If, and this is a big if, there is anyone who can beat Viktor, it has to be Jean Jacques.”

“Wait,” Yuuri says as his mind slowly catches up with Leo’s words. “You mean if Viktor wins… it’s like declaring war on the king?”

“Not quite as harsh. And it doesn’t have to mean anything, but it can. I mean, it has happened before, and it has led to feuds and animosities lasting for several centuries. Both Jean Jacques and Viktor are very proud and House Nikiforov is strong, so if Viktor wants to be the king there is definitely potential for the whole situation to get out of hand.”

“Huh,” is the only thing Yuuri says and he fixes his gaze back on Viktor and Jean Jacques, who are bowing before getting into position. Viktor hadn’t struck him as the kind of person who would want to be a king, but then again Yuuri had only gotten to know him for one night, so he can’t know for sure, can he?

The blow of a horn signals the start of the fight. Instead of moving in, both duellists take a step back, getting out of each other’s reaches.

Usually it is Viktor who moves in first, his strikes quick and effective as an arrow, but the only thing he does now is change his guard to shield his face with the sword.

They stand like this for a while until Yuuri is sure he could touch the tension if he were to reach out. It is Jean Jacques who springs forwards first and feigns a strike at Viktor’s side but aims for his head instead. Of course Viktor looks through the guise and parries easily, trying to land a blow of his own.

Yuuri holds his breath as they move backwards and forwards in an entrancing dance to the music of scraping metal. Where Viktor is quicksilver, fast and deadly,  JJ is iron, hard and unrelenting, every blow a force of its own.

It’s the longest anyone has ever lasted in a fight against Viktor, but Yuuri can see the signs of fatigue in both of them. Their movements are slowing down, only visible to those with a trained eye, and Viktor’s arms are shaking under the weight of the sword every time he lifts it up.

The crowd gasps when Viktor’s knees give out and he stumbles to the ground, only barely catching the fall in an attempt to hold onto his sword. Jean Jacques strikes down, about to land what must be the final strike, but Viktor holds his sword up with both hands and blocks it.

It is no use; he is on his knees, holding onto his sword with his last strength, and all Jean Jacques has to do is move his sword around Viktor’s and press the tip of the blade against Viktor’s throat.

“I yield,” Viktor chokes out. The noise of the roaring crowd is almost deafening.

__

The banquet that night is like Yuuri’s worst nightmare come true; the hall is crowded with hundreds of people Yuuri has never heard of and the volume of their laughter increases with each downed drink. Servants are rushing back and forth to fill every empty mug in sight, barely being able to keep up with the rate in which the mugs are being emptied again.

Yuuri is terrified and all he has to do is share a glance with Phichit to make his increasing discomfort clear.

Phichit nods.

“Do you know the way back to the quarters?”

Yuuri almost cries in relief.

__

Yuuri has absolutely no idea where he is. The castle is even bigger than the one in Asu and it’s just his luck that the only similarity both castles share is that every corridor looks absolutely the same. Yuuri doesn’t know if he’s going in circles or if he’s just getting more and more lost with every turn he takes in what feels like an endless maze. 

The torches illuminate the otherwise dark and empty hallways and Yuuri hasn’t seen a guard in almost ten minutes, as most of them are patrolling the halls around the banquet hall – which must mean that Yuuri is very, very far away from it.

“Sure Phichit,” he mutters beneath his breath. “I’ll find the quarters on my own. No, of course you don’t need to send Leo or Guang Hong with me. I’ll be fine. Have fun.”

“Hey!” a voice behind him interrupts his monologue. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Yuuri’s first reaction is relief. However, when he turns around he finds himself face to face with a very angry looking guard – a very angry looking guard who is pointing a very sharp looking weapon at him.

“I got lost,” he says truthfully, holding up his hands. Just in case. “Could you by any chance tell me where the guest chambers are?”

Instead of lowering the weapon, the guard points it at Yuuri’s chest. This is not the reaction Yuuri was hoping for.

“Isn’t it a coincidence,” the guard drawls, “that you’ve gotten lost so close to the weapon chambers?”

_Ah_. Well.

“I promise you, I am telling the truth. I am only a servant,” Yuuri pleads, eyes flickering between the guard and his sword. “Just… take me to the guest chambers? Prince Phichit must be waiting for me already.”

The sword quivers at the mention of Phichit’s name, but it doesn’t drop.

“I’ll take you to the captain,” the guard says after a moment of consideration. “She will know what to do with you. If you’re really a servant of the Prince, there’s surely nothing you have to worry about.”

The sword presses into his side, urging him to move down the corridor. Into the opposite direction of where Yuuri had been heading, he realizes with annoyance.

Technically, he _is_ telling the truth and there’s nothing to worry about. Still, the one condition for Yuuri to come with Phichit was keeping his head low because Yuuri is, after all, not really a servant, and if word got out that Phichit had taken a commoner into the castle of Omere with him it could get him into serious trouble.

He yelps as he feels the tip of the blade push between his ribs.

“I don’t have all day,” the guard warns.

“Is this really necessary?” Yuuri tries once more. Mari had told him he has great puppy eyes, but they don’t seem to work on the guard, as the only reply is another push, bordering on the edge of painful.

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

Reluctant, Yuuri sets into motion, led by insistent nudges against his ribs. The only thing he can hope for is that they run into as little people as possible, but the sound of another pair of steps approaching tells him that today isn’t his lucky day.

The footsteps come to a halt and Yuuri’s chest tightens. He can already hear the hushed whispers, the rumours spreading across the castle. _Is it true, they found a servant of Prince Phichit sneaking around near the weapon chambers? - Yes, and as rumour has it, he’s not even a real servant! Some say he might be a spy!_

 “Yuuri, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

He is not surprised, but deeply shocked at the sound of Viktor’s voice and for a second he’s sure he’s imagining it, he must be, but he looks up and Viktor is there, a smile on his face that is all teeth, bright and friendly.

His eyes on the other hand are narrowed down to slits, dangerous and calculating.

“Lord - Lord Viktor,” the guard stutters and lets his sword drop to his side, bowing ever so slightly. “Do you know this servant?”

Viktor kisses the back of his teeth.

“Of course I do. He is one of Prince Phichit’s most trusted servants and the poor prince is worried sick about his whereabouts.”

He takes a step forward, completely ignoring Yuuri, who doesn’t know whether he should feel relieved or disappointed, never taking his eyes off the guard.

“What do you need that for?” he asks, reaching for the guard’s blade. “You were not threatening him, were you?”

“M- my Lord! He was lurking around near the weapon chambers, talking to himself and acting all suspicious! I was merely doing my job by detaining him!”

“I got lost on my way back to the guest chambers,” Yuuri sighs, trying to sound as pitiful as possible in an attempt to play along.  Viktor wraps an arm around Yuuri, pulling him close to his chest.

“My, my,” Viktor sing-songs. “Whatever will your future king say if he knows that you left your post and accused a servant of one of Omere’s most trusted allies of treachery?”

The guard’s posture changes immediately. Where he had been proud and tall before, his shoulders are now hunched, making him look much smaller than he actually is, and his face is as white as the wall behind him.

“I apologize, my Lord,” he mutters.

“It is certainly not me you should apologize to.”

The guard hesitates, clearly torn about the prospect of apologizing to a lowly servant, but he lowers his head and, very quietly, apologizes to Yuuri.

“Perfect!” Viktor claps his hands. “Now that this is taken care of, we can all forget about this embarrassing incident and I’ll see that Yuuri reaches his chambers, so Prince Phichit doesn’t have to worry anymore. I would advise you to actually see to your job instead of pestering poor servants.”

Viktor’s voice is as sweet as the syrup served at the banquet, but his every word seems to hits the guard as hard as a blow with a blunt mace and he cowers even more in himself, bowing once more.

“Of course, my Lord,” he says and walks… no, _sprints_ down the corridor, far far away from where Viktor is standing, arm still wrapped around Yuuri’s shoulders. The silence stretches, not in a comfortable way, and Yuuri begins to squirm.

“Well,” Viktor says, after it’s clear they are alone. “I’m not going to lie, Yuuri, you were the last person I expected to see here.”

“Thankyousomuch,” Yuuri says in one rush, and Viktor laughs, quiet and low in his throat.

“I didn’t peg you as the type that talks to himself,” Viktor grins.

“I-” Yuuri begins but stops when Viktor starts to walk, steering him into the direction Yuuri just had come from.

“My Lord, where are you taking me?” he asks, a little out of breath as he tries to keep up with Viktor’s long strides. “Didn’t you say Prince Phichit is worried about me?”

Viktor only smirks and gives Yuuri a look that makes him breathless for entirely different reasons.

“The only thing Phichit should be worried about right now is the hangover he’s going to have tomorrow if he keeps downing ale like he was when I left.”

“But then why did you tell the guard he’s looking for me?” Yuuri asks, confused.

“Because I wanted to keep you all to my greedy self.”

Viktor says this as if he’s talking about the latest fashion trends in Eurys, calm and collected, but the words work on Yuuri like a magic spell, stealing both his voice and his ability to think.

“Where are we going?” he manages to say, not even sure if his words make sense at all, or if it’s just meaningless gibberish. 

They must have had some meaning, as Viktor replies in an instant.

“Why, to the training grounds, of course! There must be a lot you need to show me!”

__

 “So,” Viktor drawls, testing the weight of several training swords sitting on the racks.

While spring has already taken its hold on Asu, it hasn’t reached the northern countries like Eurys yet and Yuuri is taken aback by how cold it still is here, shivering slightly.

“You are serving the prince?”

He tries to sound casual, but fails spectacularly.

“I…  yes - no. I mean, maybe?” Yuuri stumbles over his words, recovering from the aftershocks of being dragged to the training grounds in the middle of the night by none other than Viktor Nikiforov.

Viktor arches an eyebrow, visible in the low light of the torches lining the walls of the small inner courtyard.

“I am not,” Yuuri clears up. “Phichit – Prince Phichit and I are friends and I –“

“Catch,” Viktor says, tossing a sword at Yuuri who manages to catch it only barely, surprised by the coldness of the metal.

“I really wanted to see this tournament, so I asked him if I could come with him and – and here I am,” Yuuri concludes, hands sneaking around the hilt of the sword almost on their own accord.

Viktor whistles.

“Friends in high places, huh?” he says while he’s eyeing a sword critically, trying out a few swings.

“Something like that,” Yuuri replies, testing the weight of the sword Viktor had given him. It’s a bit heavier than his own old and battered blade at home, but other than that it feels good in his hands. Familiar.

To his surprise, Viktor raises his own weapon at Yuuri, a challenging smirk on his face.

“Lord Viktor,” Yuuri stutters. “You cannot -  you cannot possibly ask me to fight you.”

“Oh, but I am,” Viktor says, lowering himself into position.

“But I stand no chance!”

“No, you don’t,” Viktor replies cheerfully. “But now that you can’t avoid me anymore, what better way is there for me to see how you’ve improved than to fight you?”

Yuuri stands frozen in place, a million different thoughts rushing through his head. What if someone sees them? Surely the guard from before wouldn’t let him get away this easily this time. And what if… what if he trips and hurts Viktor? Viktor probably wouldn’t let him get even that close, though, so Yuuri only has to worry about what a fool he will make out of himself, but –

Viktor clicks his tongue.

“Has anyone ever told you that you think awfully loud? I can barely hear my own thoughts,” he disrupts Yuuri’s train of thoughts.

“S- sorry, but I really don’t think I can’t-“

 “You can. Come on now, I promise I will go easy on you.”

The smile on Viktor’s face is genuine, so different from the ones he had worn at the tournament earlier, or when he was talking to the guard; it is less teeth, but more warmth, corners of his mouth twitching and the skin around his eyes crinkling.

Yuuri takes a deep breath and gets into position, his stance mirroring Viktor’s. Viktor looks at him encouragingly, apparently waiting for Yuuri to make the first move.

And so he does. He raises his hands above his head, planning to strike down on Viktor from this position, but the moment it takes him to move up his hands is all Viktor needs to strike forward, pressing the tip of his sword against Yuuri’s chest.

Yuuri gulps, looking from the sword pressing into his stomach to Viktor and back again. Well. That went well.

“Try something more defensive as your first move,” Viktor advises, staying in position. “And you don’t need to raise your arms that high; always try to keep them between you and your body. A blow to the arms won’t end a duel, but this…”

He wiggles the sword from where it is sitting against Yuuri’s belly, careful not to hurt him, before he lowers it again.

“This will.”

“Okay,” Yuuri nods and gets back into the starting position, waiting for Viktor to do the same. This time, he takes a step back when he moves his arms upwards and tries to keep them between his face and Viktor. He takes a step forward again and strikes down on Viktor, who moves out of his reach quickly.

“Better,” Viktor says. “But don’t get careless.”

The thought of Michele Crispino crosses Yuuri’s mind, smirking only seconds before he lost, and Yuuri parries Viktor’s next blow, sounds of blades crashing together filling the air.

“Yes, good!” Viktor praises and tries to push Yuuri’s sword away from his body with his own, but Yuuri presses against it and takes a step back.

Viktor lunges out and this time it is Yuuri who uses the fraction of a second Viktor needs to raise his hands to push forward. Viktor evades it effortlessly.

 “That was good!” Viktor says, flicking the hair out of his face. “But try to turn the moment after a failed attack into an attack itself. Like this.”

Yuuri parries Viktor’s next blow, but Viktor immediately twists his hands, doing something that is too fast for Yuuri to see, and ends with the tip of Viktor’s sword pressed against Yuuri’s hip.

“Again,” Yuuri says.

Their blades are crossing again and again and Yuuri tries to incorporate Viktor’s improvement suggestions in his movements.

He suspects… no, he knows that Viktor is holding back. They’re moving much slower than the duellists did earlier today, but Yuuri feels some strange sense of pride as he gets better at evading and parrying Viktor’s strikes, each fight getting longer. 

“How about we take a break?” Viktor asks after some time, leaning slightly on his sword for support as pearls of sweat form on his forehead

“No,” Yuuri barks. “I want to try again.”

If Viktor is surprised by Yuuri’s harsh tone, Yuuri is even more so. His eyes widen in shock and he covers his mouth with his free hand, apology already forming in his throat. It never gets as far as his mouth, because Viktor starts to laugh, head thrown back and mouth open.

“Your face when you realized…” Viktor snorts, erupting into another fit of laughter.

Yuuri is glad about the low light, because he feels the blood rushing to his head.

“I didn’t meant to – I was still concentrating on the fight – “ he stammers, resulting in another fit of giggles from Viktor.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor says after he’s calmed down. “Still taking back at me. You haven’t changed, have you?”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri mutters, casting his face downwards.

“It’s alright. More than alright. Now, where were we?”

He raises his sword, a playful smirk around his lips.

Yuuri cannot say how long they fight like this, going back and forth, moving around each other in an intricate dance. If this really was a dance, Yuuri muses, Viktor wouldn’t be a very good dancer, always two steps ahead of Yuuri.  He is moving to a completely different rhythm than Yuuri does, fast paced and harsh, and Yuuri is struggling to keep up.

Until –

There is an opening on Viktor’s left. His sword is sitting at his right, next to his hip and if Yuuri is fast enough, maybe…

He doesn’t hesitate and swings his sword at the opening, remembering everything he knows; stance wide, body lowered, arms first, body second, arms in between himself and his opponent, building up momentum with the twist of his hip –

“ _Huh_ ,” Viktor breathes, realisation dawning upon him a second too late, and Yuuri hits. Viktor’s eyes are wide with wonder.

“You… you hit me.”

“I did,” Yuuri replies, sounding just as confounded, not daring to move away from his current position, eyes glued to Viktor’s astonished face. 

“Quite hard, actually,” Viktor winces slightly, but laughs.

“I - I did? I - _oh_!”

Yuuri lets his weapon drop to the ground, rushing to Viktor’s side immediately.

“I am so sorry!” he gushes, but Viktor’s smile only widens.

“No, Yuuri, no, don’t apologize! I - I haven’t been hit in a really long time.”

“The prince beat you only a few hours ago,” Yuuri points out, gaze still fixed upon the part where his sword had touched Viktor. There’s no blood; Yuuri guesses that’s a good sign.

“Oh, yeah.”

Viktor makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“That doesn’t count. But you! You’re not even out of breath, are you?”

He looks at Yuuri as if he is a wonder to behold, smile turning tender and eyes never leaving Yuuri as he lowers his sword. Yuuri is torn between squirming and preening under the stare, settling on a shy smile of his own, while he wants to scream, h _ow does your future king not count, but I do?_

 “I wasn’t wrong about you,” Viktor murmurs, voice barely more than a whisper.

Then he clears his throat, the sudden sound startling Yuuri out of his own trance.

“How long will you be here for?” he asks with a hopeful look on his face.

“Until the day after tomorrow,” Yuuri replies mournfully and Viktor’s face falls. It is a one week travel back to Theussa and as much as Phichit had wanted to stay for a bit longer, there are still princely duties he needs to attend to.

“Meet me here again tomorrow?” Viktor asks instead of complaining. Yuuri’s body decides to nod before his mind has had the time to process the question.

“Great!” Viktor exclaims, clapping his hand in excitement.

“Now, let me get you back to your chambers, before I have to rescue you out of the grasps of evil guards again.”

“You would do that again?” Yuuri gasps mockingly. Viktor bows in front of him.

“Why, of course. I’d do anything to help a damsel in distress.”

“How very noble of you,” Yuuri laughs, putting the sword back in the weapon rack. Viktor, doing the same, sighs dramatically.

“What can I say? I am, after all, a true gentleman.”

Yuuri laughs again at that and falls into step with Viktor.

“How is Makkachin?” he asks. Viktor’s whole demeanour changes at the question and his grin turns wide like the sun itself.

“He is doing well! I just hope Mila doesn’t spoil him too much in my absence. Not that he doesn’t deserve spoiling, because if there’s anyone who deserves it, it’s him, but what if I come back and he actually likes Mila more than me because she gives him more treats?”

Yuuri smiles softly.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says, voice low.

Viktor beams at him and if he continues to fuss about his dog all the way back to the guest quarters, well, Yuuri is not complaining.

__

Jean Jacques’ coronation is a pompous and glamorous as one would expect from someone with his personality. To make it even worse, it culminates in a just as over the top proposal, which JJ’s now-fiancée, Lady Isabella Yang, accepts tearfully.

It is both heart-warming and vomit-inducing and frankly, Yuuri doesn’t care about it at all. All throughout the ceremony, he keeps glancing at Viktor, who is wearing a midnight blue waistcoat over a simple crème-coloured dress shirt and to say that he looks absolutely stunning would be an understatement.

He seems to be busy with shushing Yuri Plisetsky, whose red suit is matching the colour of his face. When Viktor looks up, there’s a coy grin playing around his lips and it takes Yuuri several seconds to notice that he’s been caught staring.

Embarrassment is an old friend to Yuuri, but not a dear one, and he quickly looks away, face burning bright.

The wait for the day to end is downright torturous, both because of the waiting and the suggestive comments from Phichit about his whereabouts the previous night. He ignores them, insisting that he had only gotten lost for a very long time, which is not a complete lie, even though he knows the colour of his face is betraying him. 

When Yuuri finally, _finally_ enters the training grounds again, Viktor is already waiting for him.

“And here I thought you had forgotten about me,” Viktor smiles, handing Yuuri the sword.

“I would never, my Lord,” Yuuri says with an answering smile of his own. Viktor laughs.

“Am I ever glad to hear that.”

They fall into an easy rhythm. Viktor’s movements are slow, giving Yuuri all the time he needs to parry or avoid his strikes and Yuuri replies with the same speed. It feels comfortable, dancing around each other like this, and Yuuri hasn’t felt that much at peace since he had left his home town.

“How did you find the coronation?” Viktor asks, aiming his sword at Yuuri’s chest. Yuuri steps back.

“It was… something?” Yuuri replies. “I mean, I – I have no idea what coronations are supposed to be like, this is the first one I’ve seen, but – are the people being crowned supposed to give speeches about themselves? Quite… long speeches?”

“Oh no,” Viktor snorts, evading one of Yuuri’s blows. “That was all JJ’s… personal touch. What did you think about his clothes?”

Yuuri shudders at the thought of the cloak made out of peacock feathers, clashing horrible with his lime green robes.

“In all honesty, they were not the oddest thing about the coronation.”

“True,” Viktor laughs. “He is going to be an interesting king.”

“I can believe that,” Yuuri says. “Stand still for a second, I want to try something.”

Viktor obliges.

Yuuri leaves his left hand at the grip, holding on tight, and grabs the middle of the blade with his right hand, aiming a jab at Viktor.

“Half-swording,” Viktor hums. “One of Christophe’s favourite techniques.”

“He did it at the tournament,” Yuuri agrees. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Because it’s a soldier’s move, not very common in duelling. Here, let me show you,” Viktor says, changing the grip on his sword to mimic Yuuri’s.

“If you ever come across a soldier in full armour, you won’t be able to take the armour part with strikes alone. You have to aim at the joints and with this grip, you have better control of where your blows hit,” Viktor explains, poking Yuuri in the shoulder with the tip of his sword.

“You could also grip the blade with both hands and use the pommel as a makeshift maze. But in duelling, you don’t just want to bat aimlessly at your opponent, hoping to hit him at some point, so it’s not really something you’ll find there.”

“I see,” Yuuri says, trying it out anyway.

Viktor keeps standing still as a statue, letting Yuuri try out as many sword moves on him as he likes. It is so different from training on his own, fighting against an enemy that isn’t even there, and Yuuri cherishes every second he is allowed to have this, if only for one more night.

“Now that we’ve established that my king is a bit odd,” Viktor says, making Yuuri snort, “tell me about Prince Phichit. How did you manage to befriend him?”

“It’s kind of a long story,” Yuuri laughs, embarrassed. “The short version is, I became the prince’s playmate thanks to pure dumb luck and got to live at the castle until his mother saw me attacking her son with a sword.”

“That sounds like a story I definitely need to hear,” Viktor says. He doesn’t even flinch when Yuuri swings at his head, stopping the blade shortly above it.

“Well, if you insist. Stop me if you’re bored,” Yuuri says. Viktor cocks his eyebrows.

“Bored by you? Never.”

Yuuri turns red and stumbles.

 “I – I met him when the queen took him to the market one day. Apparently, he was playing a… rather one-sided version of hide and seek with her and he asked me if I could help him find a good hiding place. I thought he was just a normal boy, like me, so I said sure, and we played hide and seek together. Imagine my surprise when I saw the queen herself scolding him.”

“I can imagine,” Viktor grins.

“After that, Phichit must have talked about me until his parents were tired of hearing my name, because one day an envoy stood in front of our inn, asking for me. They offered my parents money to be the prince’s playmate and of course they said yes; they could use all the money they could get and growing up alongside the prince gave me a chance for proper education that I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere else. I was terribly shy, but also excited. I mean I still got to see my parents whenever I wanted but I could also live in a castle and play with my friend.

“I learned how to read and to write, among other things, but… I wasn’t allowed to learn the one thing I wanted to learn most.”

“Ah,” Viktor says, voice filled with understanding. Yuuri sighs and lets his arms fall to his sides, sword clattering as the tip hits the ground.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his free hand, slightly knocking his glasses askew. “I pestered Phichit with it until he agreed to teach me a few things he learned during his lessons and well - it went as well as you’d expect. His poor mother must have gotten a heart attack when she found her nine year old crossing blades with another child.”

“What a sight that must have been,” Viktor says, smiling.

 “I don’t even want to think about it,” Yuuri laughs. “Imagine taking a stroll through the castle gardens and seeing two children, one of them your own, trying to hit each other with swords bigger than themselves.

“I was still allowed to the castle after that, if only to appease Phichit’s temper tantrums, but I had to move back home and lost all my privileges of being the prince’s playmate. Plus, they’d always make sure no swords were involved when Phichit and I were in the same room together. But yeah, that’s the story of how I befriended the future king of Asu.”

“And what a great story it is,” Viktor says.

“Phichit loves to tell it,” Yuuri replies, cheeks red. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard the ‘how my playfellow and I almost killed each other as kids’ story at one of his birthday parties.”

“He might have told me, but I tend to… forget things sometimes,” he says, looking almost shy. “But I won’t forget it this time. Thank you for telling me.”

Viktor has moved closer, Yuuri realizes, or maybe Yuuri has, he hadn’t been paying attention, too absorbed in his own story. But now their shoulders are almost touching and Viktor is giving him this particular look again – like Yuuri is something precious that needs to be treasured, and it goes straight to Yuuri’s head.

“I –“ he stutters. “I – it was – I’m – you’re welcome?” he offers, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

“Tell me, Yuuri,” Viktor says and reaches out for Yuuri’s hand, entrapping it between the hilt of the sword and his own hand. “Do you still want to be a duellist?”

Yuuri doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes, of course I do. More than anything. But – but I already told you, I can’t.”

Viktor keeps looking at him, really looking at him, seeming to search for something in Yuuri’s eyes. What he is trying to find Yuuri does not know, but this time he doesn’t avoid his gaze and tries to give Viktor the answer he needs to see, whatever it might be.

“Hm,” Viktor hums and turns his gaze away. A shiver runs down Yuuri’s spine the second Viktor lets go of his hand, in favour of gripping his own sword with both hands again.

“Viktor?” he asks, voice hushed and confused.

“Want to make the most of it while we’re still here?” Viktor replies and raises his sword. He is smiling, but it is different than his former smile, not quite as bright and breathtaking, and Yuuri finds it hard to decipher.

Yuuri wordlessly mirrors Viktor’s stance, his eyes never leaving Viktor’s.

After they finally said goodbye to each other, the sky is turning purple around the edges and Yuuri’s hands feel like raw meat while every bone, every muscle in Yuuri’s body is crying in agony.

When the carriage rolls off the castle grounds, Yuuri’s chest feels strangely hollow, as if something is not quite right.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will be less exposition heavy and I won't separate Viktor and Yuuri again
> 
> Let me know what you think :)


	3. Chapter 2: Indes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much to everyone who left comments and kudos or bookmarked the fic. This is the first longer thing I've written in a very, very long time and your feedback means the world to me. 
> 
> Another shoutout to [Renaissance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance) for proofreading. Without them you'd have to deal with my inability to use contractions and me using wrong words :D
> 
> I hope you like this chapter!

**Chapter 2: Indes**

**“The Simultaneous is when both you and your opponent execute your cuts at the same time, which is also signified by the word Instantly [Indes]. It embodies a serious exhortation to quick judgement, so that one should be constantly swift of mind.”  
\- Joachim Meyer**

The small inn is crowded on this particular day, many travellers and transients seeking shelter from the thunderstorm that’ starting to brew over the sea. Through the window, Yuuri can see the haven from afar and he pities those that are still out at sea. If they don’t make it back before the thunderstorm, it’s likely they are never to be seen again.

“Yuuri, can you clean the first room on the second floor? I believe we need as many vacant rooms as possible tonight,” his mother says.

A night like this means more money, but it also means not a moment of peace for all of them. While his parents are busy preparing food in the kitchen, Mari serves the tables and pours out drinks, and Yuuri does whatever else needs to be done.

But they make do, have done so for several years now, and even though there have been some rough winters, their survival has never been at stake.

It is their onsen, the only one in all of Theussa, that lures in most costumers, the promise of a hot bath enough to make them put up with the otherwise mediocre conditions of the inn.

“On it,” Yuuri says, grabbing a broom and climbing up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He finds the room in mild disarray, blankets crumpled and showing suspicious stains, the ashes from the chimney spreading out in front of it and a few empty tankards lying around. They’ve had worse, Yuuri thinks as he picks up the tankards and places them in front of the room, together with the dirty blankets. At least there are no vomit stains or… worse. He shudders at the memory.

He grabs some fresh blankets from a nearby storage room, makes the bed and sweeps the floor. The room… doesn’t look as good as new, but respectable enough to spend a night in. Yutopia is not the best inn around, far from it, but it’s also not the worst.

He quickly checks the other empty rooms before he goes back down, noticing that the inn has filled; more and more travellers are spreading across the room and Mari has, despite her magic, trouble with keeping their tankards full. Yuuri rushes to her side, earning himself a rare grateful smile from his sister.

His stomach grumbles as the heavenly smell of katsudon fills his nostrils. It’s been too long since he had a chance to eat it himself instead of serving it to hungry costumers. As he reaches for the plate, he ignores the urge to steal a piece of pork instead, but only because both his parents are watching.

 “Let me,” his mother says, grabbing his arm. “There’s another costumer who would like to stay for the night, and he’s waiting for someone to show him to his room. I would do it myself, but…”

She sighs and moves a hand wordlessly to her hip. Yuuri gives her a worried look.

“Is it that bad again?”

She doesn’t reply, which is answer enough.

“Why haven’t you said anything? You should be taking a break,” Yuuri tells her, even though he already knows what her answer will be.

“On a night like this? You know as well as I do that we could use the extra coin, especially after we had to repair the stables.”

“I know,” Yuuri sighs. “But still. Take it easy.”

“I will,” she promises. She won’t.

A mischievous smile spreads across her face as she winks at Yuuri, distracting him effectively from her hip.

“Speaking of extra coin. This new costumer looks like he has some money to spare. Maybe you could talk him into spending a bit more than strictly necessary?”

“I’ll see to it,” he grumbles, not particularly fond of the idea.

“You are a dear,” his mother replies and kisses him on the forehead.

Yuuri leaves the kitchen and pulls back his shoulders, ready to charm this customer with everything he has, even though it’s not much. The plan, however, goes completely down the drain the second he catches sight of the customer.

Because even if he can only see his eyes, or rather his eye, the rest hidden behind a piece of clothing Yuuri has never seen before – a scarf that turns into a hood and covers both the upper and lower parts of his face – the streak of silver is all he needs to see.

If there had been any doubt about the man’s identity, it’s cleared the second the man – Viktor – speaks.

“Finally!” he says. Yuuri has no time to react as Viktor pulls him into a hug. “For a second I thought I’d gotten the wrong inn, but then I saw your lovely mama and she looks just like you!”

Yuuri wants to retreat, and to scream, and be affronted because he does _not_ look like his fifty year old mother, but he does none of these things.

All he manages to get out is a deadpan, “What.”

“I made it just before the rain set in,” Viktor continues to ramble on. “I was scared that you might not have a room for me, but it seems I was lucky.”

“Lord V-!” Yuuri exclaims, or wants to, but he gets cut off by a hand covering his mouth.

“Just Viktor, please,” Viktor says with a sheepish smile. “I’m undercover.”

He surely isn’t behaving that way judged by the few confused looks he’s attracting, but Yuuri doesn’t have it in him to tell him.

“Of course,” he says, resigned. “Are you – are you sure you want to stay here? We’re not exactly the best inn around and I think if you’d go to the castle the king would have no problem accommodating you while you’re here.”

“No, no, I am exactly where I want to be.”

He winks at Yuuri and, uh, wow. Yuuri had forgotten what that wink does to him.

“Why don’t you show me to my room? We have much to discuss,” Viktor says. The _We do?_ dies on Yuuri’s lips when Viktor wraps an arm around him and steers him upstairs.

“It’s, uhm, it’s not much,” Yuuri says, unlocking the door.

“If it has a bed and a wash room it will be enough.” Viktor smiles as he steps into the room. “And I see it has both! Marvellous!”

It’s not exactly the word Yuuri would use to describe the room, but it’s one of the best they have to offer.

“Oh, I almost forgot! There’s a carriage waiting outside. Could you give this to the carter…” Viktor rummages through his coat pocket and pulls out a small pouch. “Give him my thanks and see that my trunk and my dog are brought to my room?”

Yuuri is surprised by the weight of the pouch, but it doesn’t match his surprise at Viktor’s words.

“You brought Makkachin?” he asks while a small, resigned voice in his head says, _Of course he brought his giant poodle_.

“Of course, I couldn’t leave him alone again. And I’m sure he will be more than happy to see you.”

“Viktor…” Yuuri gives him an exasperated look. “What is the meaning of all of this?”

“I will explain,” Viktor promises. “But get Makkachin first?”

Not for the first time in Viktor’s presence, Yuuri is left speechless and unable to say no.

__

Getting a large, heavy trunk up not one, but eighteen stairs, is complicated enough as it is. What makes Yuuri’s situation all the more troublesome is the almost pony-sized dog, hopping excitedly around his feet.  

It wouldn’t be a problem for Mari; she could lift the trunk with one flick of her finger, but she looks exhausted and busy enough without her brother bothering her, so Yuuri risks the chance of falling down the stairs and dying.

It only almost happens twice.

“Makkachin!” Viktor laughs as soon as he opens the door and the dog jumps on his hind legs in an attempt to lick Viktor’s face.

“I only left you for a few seconds and you already miss me?”

He ruffles Makkachin’s fur, looking fond. Yuuri clears his throat.

“I, err, brought your trunk,” he says awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other. Startled, Viktor seems to remember that his poodle didn’t make it to his room on his own. He sets Makkachin’s feet gently on the ground again and the dog doesn’t waste any time to climb on the bed Yuuri had made not an hour before.

“Did you carry it up all by yourself?” Viktor asks, eyes going wide. “Yuuri, I could have helped you!”

“No no, it’s fine!” Yuuri shakes his hands in reassurance. “I’m used to it, really. Besides, it wasn’t that heavy.”

“Why do you have to carry it, though? Don’t you have personnel for that?”

Yuuri laughs and remembers that, yes, Viktor is an arse.

“My Lord, I am the personnel,” he says. “So are my parents and my sister, but they were busy. Really, you don’t need to worry about me; I do this all the time.”

“Your family runs this inn all by itself?” Viktor asks, incredulous. “Why don’t you have more people working for you?”

“Because,” Yuuri says very pointedly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “We simply cannot afford it. Not everyone grew up rich.”

Yuuri savours Viktor’s dumbfounded look at his words.

“As a matter of fact, I am needed downstairs. So could we please get to the part where you tell me what you’re doing here?”

Viktor’s whole face brightens at that, as if he hadn’t been scolded a second ago.

“Of course, of course!” he says, gesturing to one of the spare chairs. “Please sit, we have much to discuss.”

“Lord Viktor…”

“And please drop the title. I’m not here as a lord, but as myself.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri tries again, the name feeling unfamiliar and wrong without the title. “I really don’t have much time. You’ve seen how crowded this place is and I can’t let my sister do all the work for me.”

Viktor keeps nodding towards the chair.

“Fine…” Yuuri says in defeat and lets himself slump down on the chair, but not without shooting nervous glances between Viktor and the door.

Viktor chuckles, absently rubbing Makkachin behind the ears.

“I want to be your teacher,” he says without preamble. “You told me that you want to be a duellist, and I want you to be a duellist, too! But you need more experience, and someone to guide you. That’s why I’m here.”

Yuuri blinks. Once. Twice. He’s very glad that Viktor had insisted on him sitting down. While he understands Viktor’s words perfectly, he struggles to make meaning of them. The silence stretches into one second, then two, then several more, and Yuuri opens his mouth, only to close it again. He doesn’t open it again, scared of accidentally screaming if he does so. Viktor grins at him, and continues.

“There’s going to be a tournament in Rus soon; nothing big, just vassals of House Nikiforov competing against each other for my father’s favour. I’m expected to compete, but it’s going to be incredible boring, so I thought you could compete in my stead.”

The sound that escapes Yuuri’s throat at that is not a pretty one; it’s a mixture between a guffaw and a sob and he would feel embarrassed if his feelings weren’t occupied with complete shock.

“Is this a joke?” he rasps, gripping the chair until his knuckles turn white.

“Yuuri,” Viktor sniffs. “Do you really think me so cruel?”

“No, of course not, but – I don’t  - why?”

It’s not one question, but many: Why are you here? Why do you want to teach me? Why do you want me to compete? Why do you bother? Why _me_? Are you completely insane?

“Simple,” Viktor says and holds up a finger. Yuuri has a feeling that his explanation is, in fact, not going to be simple.

“You duel because… you want to. Most fighters start duelling because it is expected of them, and I fear I am no exception of this rule, but you… you genuinely want to. When we fought at the coronation, I knew this was something I couldn’t just let slip away. It would be the greatest injustice to not let you compete in a real tournament, Yuuri.

“I also have to admit that my reasons are a bit… selfish. You see, what I love about duelling is the surprise, the look of shock on your opponents face when you do something unexpected. Since everyone already expects me to win, I hardly see that anymore. But letting someone else fight for me, a commoner nonetheless – you could be making history, Yuuri.”

It sounds like a speech learned by heart, like Viktor had been practising these words in front of a mirror several times for – for Yuuri.

His head is swimming.

“You _are_ serious,” he says, and it comes out more a question than a statement.

“It took me two days to get here by carriage,” Viktor replies, as if that’s answer enough.

“Even if you are now, but would you be able to bear the shame if I lose against every single one of the contestants?” he asks, bitterly.

“I would. But I know it won’t come to that, since you have me as a teacher.”

This elicits a laugh from Yuuri, even if it comes out as nothing more than a shaky exhale.

“Can I think about it?” he asks, voice small.

“Do you really need to?” Viktor counters.

It had always been Yuuri’s biggest dream to be a duellist. But that was all it ever had been: a dream, a fantasy to indulge in when things looked dull. Now, his dream is standing in front of him in the shape of none other than Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri has to suppress the childish urge to pinch himself, to make sure that this is not yet another dream.

But… a commoner competing in the name of a duellist? The thought alone already puts enough pressure on him, and doing so in the name of the best duellist in all of the Four Kingdoms makes him want to cry and laugh hysterically.

“Are you aware of what you’re asking of me?” he whispers.

“I am,” Viktor answers, a cocky smile playing around his lips. “But I’m also aware of what I am offering. All you need to do is to compete for me in the tournament, and I will teach you everything I know.”

“What about payment? I won’t be able to pay you.” Yuuri knows that by now he is just searching for obstacles to put into his own path, but Viktor removes all of them with one dismissive hand gesture.

“No need. And of course I will pay for the room. I… how did you so bluntly put it? Grew up rich, after all.” He winks.

Yuuri thinks about his family, and how they need him at the inn. He thinks of Phichit, who had tried to teach him how to use a blade at the tender age of nine, and how Yuuri had been sent away as a result. He thinks of the duellists at the coronation, of how effortless they had made everything look, and how Yuuri had envied them.

He thinks of how he had fought Viktor all night long, until the sun rose and Yuuri’s body collapsed.

He thinks about how for once in his life, just this once, he wants to be selfish.

And he says, “Yes.”

__

Falling into a routine with Viktor is easy, far more so than Yuuri ever would have thought. Following through with his training regime every day is… less so.

His family adapts to Viktor’s constant presence around their son at an alarmingly fast rate. It takes exactly two days for Yuuri’s mother to call him Vicchan, three more for his father to give him hour-long lectures about his self-made sake. 

Mari is the only one who still eyes him warily, not sure what to make of the strange lord. Yuuri doesn’t blame her.

While Yuuri spends most mornings and afternoons working at Yutopia, Viktor uses that time to… Yuuri isn’t really sure what exactly he’s doing when he’s not at the inn. Sometimes he stays in his room until well past midday, on other days he leaves early, sometimes with his sword and sometimes without, but always with Makkachin in tow.  
There are also the days where he stays at the inn until Yuuri gets off from work, successfully charming Yuuri’s family even more by offering to help with the work.

“To understand you as a fighter, I need to understand you as a person first,” Viktor says as he tackles a stack of dirty plates with a sponge, ignoring Yuuri’s protests. “And there is no better way to learn more about you than by doing your work!”

Having learned early that arguing with Viktor is pointless, Yuuri leaves him be.

He is not the least surprised when he hears a loud crash from the kitchen and sighs, not yet sure if it’s a sigh of exasperation or fondness.

__

 “Yuuri, keep your stance wide!”

“Don’t be afraid to take bigger steps, but don’t lose your balance.”

“Stop holding your sword like it’s a stick. Try turning your wrists, like this.”

“Lower your body. More. I know it’s uncomfortable, but you have to relax into the position. Yes, it’s supposed to be relaxing, don’t look at me like that.”

Yuuri is anything but relaxed. If he sinks any further into the position, he is pretty sure his thighs are going to collapse. He tries it anyway and bites his lower lip at the pain.

Rivulets of sweat are running down his spine, all the way from his neck across his back and into the sea that is his lower back, and the sun, shining through the trees without mercy, is only partly to blame. The other reason for his exertion shows even less mercy.

“You need to be faster, even though you’re tired,” Viktor tells him, swinging his own sword at Yuuri.

It’s easier said than done and Yuuri dodges the strike by taking a step back. Unfortunately, his feet stopped obeying him a while ago and he loses his balance, falling back on his hands. After a second of consideration he decides that the ground feels very comfortable, and that it would be a good idea to lie there on his back.

Away from the prying eyes of the city, the clearing had become their training spot, just as it had been Yuuri’s all these years. They try to utilize every second Yuuri is not needed at the inn, making the most of the little time they have, which leaves Yuuri exhausted and sleep deprived most of the time. He cannot afford to rest, though, not with the tournament in less than two months.

If this is what it takes to become a duellist, Yuuri is willing to grit his teeth and do it.

“Yuuri.”

Viktor tries to sound chiding, but can’t hide his amusement in his voice. “What are you doing?”

If Yuuri were as dramatic as Viktor, he would say dying.

“Taking a break,” he says instead, chest heaving. “Just give me a minute.”

“If you needed a break, why didn’t you say so?” Viktor scolds, this time with no hint of amusement. “We can pause whenever you need to.”

“No, no!” Yuuri replies, already getting up on his feet again. While his mind is more than willing to follow his words, his body greatly disagrees. He uses the sword to push himself into an upright position and tries to look as ready for another fight as possible under Viktor’s scrutinizing stare.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says. Saying the name without the title in front of it is getting easier with each time he does it. “I’m fine, really.”

Viktor still doesn’t look too convinced and Yuuri knows that this is something they’re going to address in the future, but he lets it slip this time.

“Let’s try that combination again?” he offers. Yuuri nods, grateful.

__

When Yuuri goes to bed that night, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of Viktor sound asleep in the main room of the inn. His arms are resting on the table, his face nestled into the crook of his arm and hair falling into his face. Makkachin lies on the bench next to him, his head resting on Viktor’s lap. The light of the burned-down candles reflects on his silver hair, giving him an otherworldly glow that supports Yuuri’s theory that Viktor is not human.

At the castle, Yuuri has seen paintings of noblemen from days gone by, immortalized with the stroke of a brush on canvas. What all pictures have in common is the way the nobles are portrayed: unwavering and proud.

If Yuuri were a painter and Viktor his model, he would much rather draw him like he is now: asleep, with a serene look on his face, as if nothing is wrong in the world.

He stands for several long seconds, just letting his eyes wander over Viktor’s sleeping frame. An almost magnetic pull urges him to step closer, to run his hand up Viktor’s back, all the way to his neck and soft hair.

Instead he clamps his hand around the banister and hurries up the stairs so fast that he almost trips.

 _Oh no_ , he thinks as he slams the door shut behind him, erecting a physical barrier between Viktor and himself.

As he covers himself with his blankets, he wonders how many more barriers it will take to shut out the feeling of warmth that is spreading from his chest into every corner of his body.

__

“We should skip training today,” Viktor says a few days later during breakfast, and Yuuri is so exhausted that he agrees.

 “Is there something you want to do?” Yuuri asks around a spoonful of oatmeal, already feeling the nervousness bubbling up at the prospect of keeping Viktor busy in a way that doesn’t involve swords; apart from shared meals and their lessons, they haven’t had much time to spend time together and Yuuri has absolutely no idea what Viktor likes to do in his spare time. Or if he even wants Yuuri to keep him company.

“Yes, actually,” Viktor replies, reaching across the table to grab Yuuri’s hand that is currently not holding a spoon. Yuuri flinches only slightly, slowly getting used to Viktor’s constant outbursts of affection. The first time Viktor had stepped behind him during training, his front pressed flush against Yuuri’s back and his hands encircling Yuuri’s to show him how to improve his grip, Yuuri had almost stabbed him.

“I thought you could show me around a bit,” Viktor says, playing with Yuuri’s fingers. “I mean, I’ve seen some places; the castle, obviously, and by now I know this part of town pretty well. But you should know better than me where all the places worth seeing are.”

“Sure,” Yuuri says, still feeling somewhat pressured by the thought of not wanting to bore Viktor. But showing him Theussa? That he could do.

“Great!” Viktor cheers. “When can we leave?”

Yuuri looks around. It’s still early and the only people around are some travellers, planning to leave soon themselves, or people passed out drunk from the previous night.

“Right now, if you want.”

Viktor is on his feet before Yuuri can finish the sentence.

“I’ll go and get Makkachin!”

__

Spring has finally managed to banish winter once and for all and Yuuri regrets not wearing something with shorter sleeves. Viktor had been smarter than him in this regard; he’s wearing a silken shirt and pants that look like they’re made out of the finest cotton money can buy.

“Are you not worried about someone recognizing you?” Yuuri asks. The market place is crowded at this time of day and true enough, some people are already shooting curious looks at their direction. Most of them are not aimed at Viktor, though, but at the poodle at his side.

“My family has probably already figured out where I am,” Viktor shrugs. “And everyone else I don’t really care about.”

“Wait a minute,” Yuuri says. “What do you mean, your family figured out where you are? Did you leave without telling anyone?”

“Did I not mention that before?” Viktor says with a sheepish smile. Yuuri’s incredulous expression seems to be answer enough to him.

“I left a letter?” he offers.

“I cannot believe you…” Yuuri mutters to himself, and Viktor laughs.

They walk across the market place, Viktor stopping at every other stall to ask questions about the Asurian food. He buys a sausage for Makkachin, which the dog devours with a happy boof, and Yuuri smiles at the sight.

They take their time as they move through the market booths, their fingers brushing together between them in the lightest of touches and Yuuri feels the tension in his body slowly slip away, the thought of the tournament seeming far away all of sudden. 

He leads Viktor to the beach, the sand stretching out until it gives away to the high cliffs surrounding the city.

“Rus is a coastal city too, is it not?” Yuuri asks, sliding off his shoes and socks to walk through the sand. It’s soft beneath his feet, warmed from the sun as it slips between his toes.

“It is,” Viktor nods, doing the same. “Theussa reminds me of it, in a way.”

He looks up, to where a flock of seagulls is passing above their heads. They walk towards the sea, shoes in their hands.

“Theussa is the most important trading city in all of Asu,” Yuuri tells him.

“It’s primarily a town of fishers, too. My father actually stems from a generation of fishers, but he wanted to do something… different.”

“Seems to be something that runs in your family,” Viktor says with a private smile. His silver hair is glinting in the sun, reminding Yuuri of that night he had seen Viktor sleeping so peacefully on the table. His heart rate speeds up and before he knows what he’s doing, he reaches out to touch it. His last thought before the embarrassment sets in is _It’s really soft_.

 “I am so sorry!” he stutters out, pulling out his hand as if burned. “I - I have no idea why I did that.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow and the smile on his face spreads into a wide grin, eyes brimming with mischief.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Yuuri? Am I getting bald?” he mock-gasps, still smiling.

 “No!” Yuuri assures him and bows. “Your hair is very thick and shiny!”

“You can tell me,” Viktor sighs and puts the back of his hand to his forehead. “I am, after all, getting old and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You’re not that old,” Yuuri replies earnestly, realizing his mistake too late.

“What is that supposed to mean, not _that_ old?” Viktor says dangerously slow. Before Yuuri can apologize again, Viktor grabs for Yuuri’s free hand and speeds up his step.

“I’ll show you who’s not _that_ old,” he mutters.

 “Vi – Viktor!” Yuuri gasps as he gets pulled closer and closer towards the sea until he’s standing ankle-deep in the shallow water and can watch how the fabric of his pants slowly darkens while the water seeps into the fabric. Despite the warmth of the sun the coldness of the sea is biting into the flesh of his feet, washing off the bits of sand clinging to them and taking all the warmth with it.

“What are you-“ his sentence turns into a scream (something he will deny fervently later) when a squall of water lands on his shirt, and it’s cold, cold, cold.

When he opens his eyes again, drops of water are clinging to his glasses, restricting his view. However, he can still make out Viktor very clearly, and the way he covers his mouth with one hand to stifle his snorted laughter. Makkachin barks excitedly, splashing water on both of them with his movements. The coldness doesn’t seem to affect Viktor at all.

Yuuri plans on changing that.

Wordlessly he tosses his shoes towards the sand without checking if he might have accidentally thrown them into the water. He forms a bowl with his hands and dunks them into the water, ignoring the numbing coldness.

Viktor is still laughing, not paying attention to what Yuuri is doing, and he squeals – _squeals_ – when the water hits him right in the face. It’s Yuuri’s turn to laugh in delight at Viktor’s startled face.

“Cold?” he asks mockingly, despite the fact that he is freezing, too. Viktor’s expression darkens, corners of his mouth turned downwards and brows furrowed and for one split second Yuuri thinks he fucked up, he _really_ fucked up, he has angered Viktor and thrown away their friendship and his opportunity to learn how to fight, and he is already phrasing an apology in his head, but he stops when Viktor tosses his own shoes to the left (out of the corner of his eye he can see Makkachin chasing after them), never breaking eye contact.

“Oh, you’re on, Katsuki,” he murmurs.

There is no time to react as Viktor wraps both of his arms – his icy, icy arms – around Yuuri and lets himself fall into the water, pulling Yuuri with him. Suddenly Yuuri’s head is underwater, salt stinging in his eyes and water entering his lungs as he gasps, but it’s nothing compared to the sharp bite of coldness.

He breaks through the surface, gasping for breath, now completely and utterly wet from head to toe. Viktor is sitting next to him on a sandbank, equally drenched to the skin, his glowing red cheeks a stark contrast to his otherwise pale skin.

“I guess now we’re even,” he says with an innocent smile.

“I guess we’re not,” Yuuri growls and throws himself at Viktor. The scream that erupts from his throat soon changes into giggles as the water splashes around them.

When they get back to the inn, teeth clattering but happy grins on their faces, Yuuri’s mother gasps in horror and quickly ushers them into the hot springs. His father lets out a good natured chuckle and mutters something Yuuri doesn’t quite catch. Mari only rolls her eyes and sighs.

__

Yuuri never intended Phichit and Viktor to meet during Viktor’s stay, too afraid of the outcome, but it happens anyway.

“Yuuri!” Phichit calls as he throws the door of the inn open.

“Phichit?” Yuuri gasps, horrified.

“Oh, hello Prince Phichit,” Viktor cheers.

“Lord Viktor?” Phichit asks with wide eyes.

“Oh no…” Yuuri mutters.

“Yuuri…” Phichit sings, grinning slyly.

The guests of the inn are confused and Yuuri wants to die.

__

It is way too early for their usual morning visitors. The sun is peaking above the horizon, her rays just barely gracing the rooftops of Theussa, and the town is still fast asleep.

“Is this-“ a yawn interrupts Yuuri’s sentence and he has to cover his mouth with one hand. “Is this really necessary? Can’t this wait until later?”

“You have to work later,” Viktor reminds him. “And we still have a lot to do until the tournament.”

“Yes, I know that,” Yuuri snaps, the early hour and the mention of the tournament weighing down his mood. He can barely stomach his breakfast at this time of day and he forces himself to eat his apple, knowing that he will regret it later if he doesn’t. “But… it’s so early.”

He has never been a morning person, and probably never will be. Viktor on the other hand is bursting with energy, ready to start the day with a sword in his hand. Yuuri stifles another yawn and gives the table a longing look; even the hard wood looks comfortable enough to sleep on right now.

“You will be wide awake once we get started,” Viktor says cheerfully. For some reason, Yuuri doesn’t doubt him.

It’s not Viktor that makes him jerk awake all of sudden, but a knock on the door, fist slamming against it with such force that the pictures on the walls are shaking.

“We’re not open yet,” Yuuri calls, but the knocking doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets more insistent and harder to ignore.

“I think if you don’t open the door, it won’t exist for very long,” Viktor says, never stopping to chew on his scrambled eggs.

“That’s what I fear, too,” Yuuri mutters. The floorboard creaks as he pushes his chair back and makes his way to the door begrudgingly. He turns the lock and opens the door with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he says without even bothering to look at the person in front of him. “But we’re-“

That’s as far as he gets before the person rushes past him, storming towards Viktor and slamming both hands on the table.

What follows next is a variety of what Yuuri assumes to be profanities out of the newcomer’s mouth, even though he can’t know for sure; the foreigner doesn’t speak the common tongue.

“Ah, Yuri,” Viktor says, an easy-going smile tugging at his lips and Yuuri blinks. Why is Viktor talking to him when there’s someone – a boy, Yuuri realizes, and an oddly familiar one but he can’t quite figure out why – screaming at him?

“Did you get my letter?” Viktor asks and Yuuri is completely and utterly confused. Maybe Yuuri is still sleeping and this is one of these weird dreams that don’t make any sense at all.

The boy is fuming again, but this time in the common tongue – and the puzzle clicks into place.

Yuri Plisetsky. Of course.

“Fuck _you_ , Viktor!” he yells, probably loud enough to wake some patrons. “You can’t just fuck off without telling anyone where you are, leaving only a mysterious letter that says you’re… on vacation? Even though you promised you would train me! And then, after weeks of nothing, you’re asking for someone to send your old duelling garb to Theussa?”

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, his nose almost touching Viktor’s.

“Fuck you, Viktor Nikiforov,” he spits and puts emphasis on each word, making them drip with venom.

 “And you!” Yuri Pisetsky says, now turning towards Yuuri. “Are you waiting for someone or do you plan on closing that door anytime soon? It’s getting cold in here.”

“Be nice, Yuri,” Viktor says, still not even bothering to put down his fork, chipper as ever. “You just barged into his family’s inn for no reason.”

It’s the wrong thing to say: Yuri’s shoulders begin to shake with anger and Yuuri ducks his head, expecting the next outburst. It never comes.

“I hate you so much,” Yuri only mutters beneath his breath.

“No you don’t,” Viktor replies. “You love me.”

“Where did you get that idea?” Yuri scoffs, stealing Viktor’s plate with food. Viktor looks sad for a moment, but doesn’t say anything.

“You there!”

Yuuri’s back straightens.

“Y-yes?” he says.

“Get me something to drink. Something strong.”

Viktor rolls his eyes.

“You’re not getting anything stronger than water.”

Yuuri doesn’t wait for a reply and disappears into the kitchen, thankful for the task that brings some distance between him and the ill-tempered teen. He doesn’t even know why he’s so intimidated by someone who must be almost a decade younger than him, but Yuri’s whole demeanour screams _I’ll rip your head off if you get on my nerves_ and Yuuri would like to keep his head, thank you very much.

When he finally dares to leave the kitchen, Yuri’s anger seems to have gone down somehow. He puts the tankard on the table and Yuri grabs for it, gulping it down with such speed that water is dribbling out of the corners of his mouth.

“So, are you going to come back to Rus with me or not?” he says to Viktor and burps.

“I am afraid I can’t,” Viktor says and adds, because that’s how he is, a dramatic sigh to his words. “But you are more than welcome to stay and train with us.”

“… us?” Yuri replies, voice stony.

Yuuri considers sprinting to the kitchen and barricading the door. There’s plenty of food; maybe he’ll  be able to survive until Yuri’s temper cools down.

Or maybe not.

“Viktor. Explain,” Yuri says, folding his arms in front of his chest. There’s a storm in his eyes, one that is just waiting to be unleashed, and in Yuuri’s opinion should do so very very far away from his family’s inn.

“There isn’t much to explain,” Viktor shrugs. “Yuri, meet Yuuri. I’m training him for the upcoming tournament.”

“You’re _what._ ”

“I’m training him for the up-”

“I understood you perfectly!” and oh, now the fork is stuck in the table. “You’ve got to be shitting me, Viktor.”

“Not this time,” Viktor says.

“You’ve done insane things before, but training a peasant? For a tournament? What the actual fuck.”

Yuri looks Yuuri up and down.

“And not just any peasant, but a pig like this? Did he drug you, or something?”

“I’m still here, you know,” Yuuri mutters. The look he gets in reply makes him want to go up in flames spontaneously, or combust, or anything, really, that makes him disappear.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Yuri answers before he shifts his centre of attention back to Viktor.

“This must be the most stupid thing you’ve ever done. And the bar for that was already pretty fucking high,” he tells Viktor.

“Don’t be so quick to judge him,” Viktor says, now even his smile disappearing. “He is actually a pretty decent sword fighter.”

“Decent for a pig?” Yuri scoffs.

“Decent for a duellist,” Viktor corrects. “When I think about it, I think he could beat you effortlessly.”

“What?” both Yuris say in unison, one of them looking furious, the other flabbergasted.

Victor’s smirk is back and for a fraction of a second Yuuri wonders if maybe he, too, possesses magic, because the impending feeling of doom Yuuri suddenly feels goes beyond the usual bad gut feeling.

“Actually,“ Viktor says. “That gives me an idea.”

 “No,” Yuri says firmly.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Viktor pouts.

“You want me to fight the pig,” Yuri says. “And I say no. I’m only here for you, and he is not worth my time.”

“What do you say, Yuuri?” Viktor says, turning his head to Yuuri. His heart skips a beat at Viktor’s gentle expression, and because Viktor is asking for his opinion, making sure Yuuri is okay with it, instead of just deciding for him. Seldom has Yuuri felt more important.

“I want to fight him,” he says with newfound confidence, if only to watch Viktor’s smile turn even wider at the admission. It’s almost too much and Yuuri wants to look away, but he wills himself to return the smile, albeit hesitantly.

“That’s nice but I still don’t fight pigs,” Yuri snarls.

“Aw Yuri, if you’re scared you can just say so!” Viktor says. “There’s no shame in admitting one’s fears.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Yuuri answers with squinted eyes. “And I am not falling for it.”

“Hm-hm, because you’re scared,” Viktor sing-songs.

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not!”

“Are, too.”

That does it. Yuuri slams his hands on the table and pushes himself upright, shouting “Fine! If you want to see you’re… whatever losing so much, I’ll do it! And if I win, you’ll return to Rus with me!”

“That’s alright with me,” Viktor says without missing a beat. He ignores, or simply doesn’t see, the panicked look on Yuuri’s face at his words.

“And if I win,” Yuuri adds in a fit of panic, “you’re going to stay here and train me!”

Viktor’s smile is a powerful thing. Not powerful enough to make the anxiety go away - Yuuri isn’t sure if there is such a thing - but if only for a split second, it convinces him that he is able to best Yuri.

“As long as you’ll have me,” Viktor says, and Yuuri believes him.

“Urgh,” Yuri mutters. “Let’s get it over with. Can we do this somewhere private, so I can spare the pig the public humiliation?”

“Well,” Yuuri says, the hint of smile playing around his lips. “I know just the place.”

__

When Mari had just discovered her magic, she had jokingly prophesied Yuuri’s gruesome and tragic death. Yuuri had cried for hours, even after Mari told him it had been just a joke, and slept in his parents’ bed for weeks until he was sure nothing in his room was going to kill him.

 

Now, standing face to face with someone who holds a sword in a death grip and looks like he wants to murder him, Yuuri wonders if the prophecy might have held some truth.

His own secret clearing had always been a safe place for him, a haven for when things got too much, just for himself. He doesn’t feel very safe right now.

“What are the rules?” Yuuri asks, leaning on his sword in an attempt to look more collected than he feels.

“Common duelling rules,” Viktor, standing between them with a giddy look on his face, says. “If you’re hit, you lose.”

“Alright,” Yuri nods. “Three rounds?”

Viktor presses a finger to his chin and taps it, lost in thought. He is wearing the same expression he had worn the night at the coronation, when he had asked Yuuri if he still wanted to be a duellist.

“No,” he says, sounding final. “Let’s make it five. Three out of five wins.”

“Five?” Yuri asks, incredulous. “The pig is going to collapse after the first round.”

“Let’s see about that.”

A small smile appears on Viktor’s face as he looks at Yuuri and oh. _Oh_. His heart is doing all sorts of crazy things as understanding dawns upon him, and if he hadn’t been convinced before that Viktor actually wants him to win, he is now.

Yuri rolls his eyes and raises his sword.

“Tch, if you’re sure.”

The second Viktor gives the signal, Yuri movies in. Yuuri yelps, but blocks the blow with his own sword and takes a step back. He gets no chance to collect himself before Yuri launches another attack, and again, and Yuuri moves back, until his back hits against the hard bark of a tree and there’s no escape for him.

“Stop being a fucking coward,” Yuri hisses and swings the sword at Yuuri’s head. The sound of the blade cutting the air is a bit too close to comfort as he ducks his head to avoid the blow, and the sight of Yuri’s blade stuck in the tree, at the same place where Yuuri’s head had been a few seconds ago, makes his stomach drop.

“That could have killed me,” he whispers to himself. Judged by his eye roll, Yuri hears him nonetheless.

“No it couldn’t,” he says and pulls his sword free. “But maybe you’ll see it as motivation to fight me instead of running away.”

This time, it’s Yuuri who uses the other boy’s moment of absence to his advantage and he moves around Yuri with a step to his left and attacks.

Their swords sing as they touch.

“Try to hit me, not my sword,” Yuri chides. Yuuri has no time to be baffled about the unexpected advice; Yuri has regained his composure and continues with his unrelenting attacks. He is fast, probably faster than even Viktor, and it doesn’t come as a surprise to Yuuri when Yuri’s sword collides with his ribs, hard enough to bruise.

“Well done, Yuri!” Viktor gives him a thumbs up. “But pay some more attention to your foot-work the next time!”

“Is he talking to me or to you?” Yuuri wonders out loud.

“Fuck knows,” Yuri shrugs. “Come one, again. And this time, fight me like you mean it.”

In all his life of watching tournaments, Yuuri has never seen someone move as fast as Yuri Plisetsky, and he loses again the second time. All Yuuri can do is parry the blows and try to predict where the next one is going to land to parry that one, too, until he isn’t fast enough and the tip of Yuri’s blade is pressed against the juncture between Yuuri’s neck and shoulder.

“I have to admit, you’re not as hopeless as I thought you would be,” Yuri says through ragged breathing, something resembling a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Thank you?”

“Still pretty hopeless, though,” Yuri adds and moves in again without warning. This time, Yuuri has no trouble parrying the strike. He twists his wrists, just like Viktor had taught him, and turns his defensive stance into an offensive one, aiming a jab at Yuri’s head. The teen avoids it with a puzzled look on his face.

Yuuri strikes out. Yuri’s eyes widen in surprise and he tries to dodge it, but he is a fraction of a second too slow and Yuuri’s blade meets his ribs. Somewhere behind them, Viktor lets out a cheer.

“I wanted to spare you the humiliation of losing the first three rounds,” Yuri stutters, face an angry grimace.

“Okay,” Yuuri answers with a smile. “Shall we continue, then? Or do you need a quick break?”

“Of course I don’t!”

Yuri raises his arms, the slightest of tremors running through them.

“Enjoy the feeling of having won as long as you can. It won’t last for much longer.”

To Yuuri’s surprise, he easily blocks Yuri’s next strike and predicts correctly where the next one is going to hit.

Yuri is getting careless, he thinks. His movements are becoming predictable, and he frequently leaves openings. If it’s because of his anger or fatigue Yuuri doesn’t know, but he doesn’t need to know to use Yuri’s carelessness in his own favour.

Stepping into Yuri’s personal space to get closer is a gamble; if he’s too close, Yuri can hit him just as easily as the other way around. A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Viktor tells him that duelling is all about gambling and Yuuri takes the risk, lunging out in an attempt to press his blade to Yuri’s throat.

Time is a fickle thing, sometimes stretching into forever, and at other times it’s going by so quick that Yuuri feels like he misses something important if he blinks.

Right now, it stands perfectly still: The world is frozen into place and the only one who moves is Yuuri, stretching his arms farther and even farther…

Until his blade collides with Yuri’s neck, the steel cutting shallowly into the soft skin. And then the world starts to move again.

“Bravo, Yuuri!” Viktor calls. “That was really good!”

Yuri doesn’t say anything for several long seconds. When he does, it’s with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Congratulations, pig,” he says. “You won.”

“But,” Yuuri replies, confused. “It’s two to two. You can still win.”

Yuri’s sword bounces slightly off the grass from where the boy throws it to the ground.

“Please. I’m tired while you’re still in perfect shape; I know when a battle is lost.”

“But Yuri!” Viktor bemoans. “Giving up is not like you at all!”

“I’m not giving up!” Yuri says. “But why bother when I know that you’re going to stay here, no matter what?”

He shakes his head at himself before he picks up his weapon, putting it back into the scabbard.

“You don’t want to come back to Rus,” he says, voice low. “You want to stay here with him and I – now that I’ve… I need some time to think.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks towards the edge of the clearing.

“You are more than welcome to stay, Yuri!” Viktor calls after him. He gets a rude hand gesture in response.

“Shouldn’t you… don’t you want to go after him?” Yuuri asks, worried.

Viktor shakes his head. Yuuri has never seen him look this sad before.

“Not when he’s like this. He’ll come around, though.”

Yuuri nods and watches Yuri’s back disappear between thick branches and bushes.

__

It’s several hours past midday when Viktor holds the door of the inn open for Yuuri to step in. The second Mari sees them, she puts down the tankard she’s holding and makes a beeline towards them. Her face is as impassive as ever, except for a small crease between her brows, probably invisible to those who don’t know her.

“Is something wrong?” Yuuri asks, hurrying towards her. The crease deepens.

“Well. Not wrong, exactly, but...” she turns towards Viktor. “Are you friends with angry, blond boys?”

“Oh my,” Viktor sighs and rubs his forehead, trying to smooth out the wrinkles there. “What did he break? I’m going to pay for it, don’t worry.”

“No, no, he didn’t break anything,” Mari assures him. “But he asked for – _demanded_ a room. Paid for one night and said to charge you for it if he decides to stay longer. He hasn’t come out of the room ever since.”

“That does sound like Yuri.”

“Yuri?”

“Not – not your brother obviously, but the – what did you call him? Angry blond boy. You don’t need to worry about him, he’s harmless. Well, relatively. But of course I will pay for his room, or any other costs caused by him.”

Mari gives him a weird look, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Alright, I’ll hold you up to it. And you-” she narrows her eyes at Yuuri who knows that look all too well and gulps. “You’re late. Again. Which means that, while I am going to get my beauty sleep earlier tonight, you can work your ass off on your own.”

“But-” Yuuri wants to protest.

“Just like I did last night,” Mari interrupts, “and the night before. And I think the night before that one, too?”

He winces slightly; he hadn’t realized how often he had neglected his sister in order to make room for some evening training sessions… that had, apparently more often than not, turned into nightly training sessions.

“Alright,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, Mari.”

“Just don’t let it become a habit,” Mari sighs, voice more affectionate now. “I know this… sword thing is very important to you, but we really need your help here.”

Yuuri nods.

Once she’s back to serving, Yuuri’s gaze shifts to Viktor, an apology about cancelling their future evening lessons already on his lips; the tournament is in less than three weeks and they shouldn’t be missing out on extra training sessions.  But Viktor has an absent look on his face, eyes glued to the door of the room Yuri is supposedly staying in.

“Viktor? Do you want to- Viktor?”

When Viktor doesn’t react, Yuuri tugs on his sleeve.

“Huh? Sorry, I wasn’t listening. What did your sister say to you?”

“Nevermind about that now.” Yuuri shakes his head. “You should go and talk to Yuri.”

Viktor sighs.

“No, he would throw me out of the room the second I set foot into it,” Viktor says. “I’ve been told I’m not the most… reassuring person to have around when someone is upset.”

“Who told you that?” Yuuri says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I forgot his name, but he was very adamant about it. He whipped his head so fast when I tried to hug him that the strange thing which helps him see almost fell of his face. And then he tried to stab me.”

Yuuri laughs, thinking about that one particular evening where he had been so frustrated with his progress, furious at everything and everyone, but mostly himself, and not even Viktor’s reassuring praise had been able to cheer him up. His surprise hugs even less so.

“Did he tell you you shouldn’t hug people without warning when they’re holding a weapon?” he asks.

“More than once. And then he called me an insensitive klutz for trying to ‘hug problems away.’”

The worried expression is gone from Viktor’s face and Yuuri is glad to see his usual, easy grin back in place. He’d gotten so used to that smile that seeing any other expression on Viktor feels wrong.

“What a wise man he must have been,” Yuuri grins.

“Sometimes he is. But most of the time he is quite daft,” Viktor says with a smile so soft and tender that Yuuri’s heart forgets how to work for a moment, only to hammer against his chest with full speed the second after.  He’s too scared to think about what that smile means, what implications it holds, and he awkwardly clears his throat and looks away.

“Do you think it would help if I talked to him?” he says, quietly. It’s the least he can do; the younger teen is hurting partly because of him; it was him that stole Viktor as Yuri’s coach, after all. While Yuuri knows it ultimately boils down to Viktor and his broken promise, he cannot help but feel guilty about it.

“Maybe,” Viktor says and Yuuri is grateful he doesn’t comment on the change of subject. “He won’t admit it, but I think he’d appreciate it. From what I’ve seen during your fight today, he at least respects you as a duellist.”

“How good are my chances of survival?” Yuuri asks, only half-jokingly.

Viktor snorts.

“Pretty good, I’d say. Yuri is less dangerous than he seems.”

Yuuri looks at the closed door, the only thing separating them and Yuri, and takes a deep breath.

“Wish me luck, then,” he mutters, and strides towards it.

The first knock is hesitant, barely audible in the central room of the inn, and Yuuri doesn’t get a reply. He tries again, this time firmer.

“Fuck off,” Yuri shouts from the inside.

“It’s me,” Yuuri calls back. “Can we… can we talk?”

The silence stretches and Yuuri almost believes Yuri is ignoring him, but then the sound of a key clicking in the lock catches his attention, and he feels both relieved and stressed out at the prospect of talking to Yuri.

The door opens, but only a crack, one of Yuri’s eyes peeking through it.

“Is Viktor with you?” Yuri snarls.

“No, I’m alone.”

Another moment of hesitation follows, but then Yuri turns away, leaving the door open for Yuuri. He enters the room, gently closing the door behind him.

“If you want to gloat, go on,” Yuri says with a bitter voice, and it takes Yuuri by surprise.

“Why would I do that?” he asks.

“Uh, because you won? It’s what I would do.”

Yuri lets himself drop on the bed and crosses his legs. He looks at his fingernails, trying to look bored, but Yuuri can see the underlying curiosity in his eyes; they keep darting back and forth between his hand and Yuuri.

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Yuuri shakes his head. “I, ah, actually wanted to apologize.”

Yuri rolls his eyes.

“What for? For winning? No need, but I appreciate the sentiment, thanks.”

“No, but for stealing your teacher.”

This gets Yuri’s attention. He drops his hand and looks at Yuri, really looks at Yuri, out of piercing green eyes.

“He promised to teach you and then I came along. I – I get why you’re disappointed, and angry. I would be, too, especially since I’m only – only a commoner. But – but you are more than welcome to stay and train with us! Viktor will pay for the room, he said so, and you can train with me, or, or with Viktor when I’m working. You don’t-”

“Oh, _wow_ , please shut up,” Yuri says. He gets up from the bed and walks towards Yuuri.

“Listen very carefully,” Yuri says when he comes to a halt right on front of him. “If I want to stay here, I will. I don’t need an invitation from Viktor or you, got it?”

Yuuri nods wordlessly.

“Good. Because I will stay, whether you two like it or not. The next time I’ll fight you, you won’t get away that easily.”

He steps away, his eyes never leaving Yuuri.

“For some reason, Viktor has decided you are worthy of his attention and as much as I hate to admit it… Viktor is not stupid. At least not stupid enough to ruin his reputation because of some sort of crush.”

“That’s not-”

“I don’t care what his reasons are!” Yuri snaps. “But don’t take Viktor’s attention for granted. It’s not. And you should try to make the best of it.”

“I- I will,” Yuuri stutters out of lack of anything else to say.

“Good. And now get out of my room and don’t ever try to talk to me about my feeling again. That’s disgusting.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think? :)


	4. Chapter 3: Nach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey :)  
> One last thank you to everyone who commented, subscribed, left kudos or bookmarked this fic. And, as always, thanks to [Renaissance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance) for their help!
> 
> I promised inappropriate sword innuendos in the tags and I’m finally making good on that promise. I hope you enjoy this last chapter!

** Chapter 3: Nach **

**“Then before the opponent can gather himself and come back, you shall do the after [nach] strike so that he will have to defend yet again and not be able to strike himself.**  
**Chasing is diverse and manifold, and should be executed with great judiciousness against combatants who fight inexpertly swinging around with long cuts.”**  
 **\- Joachim Meyer**

**__**

Hesitant, Yuuri lifts his hand, hovering only a few inches above the wood. He can’t help but think of how he had been in exactly the same position hours prior, knocking on a different door.

It’s dead quiet in the inn, with the last guests having left or retreated to their rooms a while ago. Mari had made good on her promise and left Yuuri to his own devices for the better part of the night, and he feels the weariness ooze into every corner of his body, making him ready to pass out the second his head hits the pillow. Before he does so, though, he needs to speak to Viktor.

The light shining through the slit beneath the door tells him that Viktor is still awake. After taking a deep breath, he lets his knuckles collide with the hard wooden surface.

“Come in!” Viktor calls from inside, sounding much too alert considering he’s been awake just as long as Yuuri.

He’s sitting on his bed, Makkachin on his lap, and his whole face splits into a wide grin when he recognizes Yuuri.

“Yuuri!” he says excitedly. “I heard your talk with the other Yuri went well?”

“That’s not the word I would use,” Yuuri says, laughing awkwardly. “Where did you hear that?”

“I figured, since Yuri came to speak to me earlier. Well, _shout_ would be a more fitting term,” he laughs. “But usually he ignores me for days when he’s angry with me. So whatever you said to him, it must have had an impact.”

Yuuri sits down on the bed next to Viktor, the softness of the bed pulling him towards it and tempting him to lie down and close his eyes, but he resists.

“Does that happen often? Him being angry at you, I mean?” Yuuri asks. Only after the question has left his mouth he realizes that it’s a rather personal thing to ask. Viktor doesn’t seem to mind.

“Not as often as it used to,” Viktor says. “We grew up together; his mother was an advisor to my father and lived with us. He was very young when his parents died, and when his grandfather was unable to take care of him anymore, my father took him as a ward. So in some way, I guess you could call him my brother.

“We’ve had our fair share of fights in the past, but I guess that’s normal for siblings.”

Yuuri thinks of Mari, and the fights they had, but also of how she’d always been there for him when he needed her, held him tight during tearful nights, and how grateful he is for having her in his life.

“It is,” he murmurs, and shares a smile of understanding with Viktor.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Viktor suddenly says, clapping his hands. “I asked Yuri to bring something for me.”

He gets up from the bed, much to Makkachin’s protest, and crouches in front of a chest that Yuuri hadn’t noticed before. It’s a different chest than the one Yuuri had dragged up the stairs several weeks ago, much smaller and less ornate, the wood chipped and battered around the edges.

“You need duelling clothing if you want to compete,” Viktor says, rummaging through the chest. “And I found this armour very fitting.”

He turns around, holding up the chest piece of what seems to be one of Viktor’s old duelling armours. Yuuri recognizes it immediately and inhales sharply.

“This is…” he begins.

“I wore it at the tournament for Prince Phichit’s sixteenth birthday.” Viktor nods. “That’s why I had some traditional Asurian elements woven into it. If anyone should wear it, it’s you.”

“It’s also what you were wearing the day we met,” Yuuri says, head swimming.

Viktor’s features turn impossibly soft.

“Yes, that, too,” he agrees.

It’s another of these moments that is laden with suggestion; suggesting what Yuuri doesn’t dare to say. These moments are getting more frequent, taking shape in form of shared smiles, brushing hands or unnecessary touches, and Yuuri fears his heart will burst if they continue like this. He isn’t sure what it means yet, too scared to think about what it could mean, and he averts his gaze before he might do or say something he will regret.

“I want you to try it on,” Viktor says, pulling the other pieces of armour out of the chest and spreading them out on the bed.

“Right now? In the middle of the night?” Yuuri asks, feeling giddy. Viktor doesn’t reply, but his eyes sparkle with mirth as he pulls Yuuri off the bed, gesturing for him to stand next to it.

“This one first,” he says, and reaches for the chest piece, pulling it over Yuuri’s head and fastening the buckles at his sides with practised ease.

“Did I get this right,” Yuuri says while Viktor is working on the armour. “You sent Yuri a letter, asking him to bring you the armour? Nothing else?”

“He wouldn’t have come here if I’d invited him.”

Viktor gets on his knees in front of him to attach the leg armour, and Yuuri fails to suppress a shiver.

“But he has been waiting for weeks for a sign of where I am so he could kick my ass, and this was an opportunity that he couldn’t resist. I fully expected him to show up without the armour, if I’m being honest.”

“What would you have done?”                                                     

Viktor shrugs, doing some final touch-ups on the leg pieces. Besides the helmet, only the arms and shoulder pieces are missing, and Yuuri stretches his arms to the sides, like he had seen many duellists that were being attended by their squires do. Viktor pulls up an eyebrow and smirks, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Dragged you to the nearest armour smith to make some custom armour for you. Which would have been very expensive for me because I would have insisted on getting you something made out of the most expensive and finest materials one can find around here.”

“I would have protested,” Yuuri pipes in, and winces as Viktor pulls a buckle a tad too tight.

“You would have,” Viktor nods. “But I wouldn’t have listened to you.”

“That sounds like you,” Yuuri sighs, making Viktor laugh.

“I think you’re done,” Viktor says, and checks one of the shoulder pieces again before he takes a step back to admire his handiwork. Yuuri feels his body grow hot beneath Viktor’s gaze; Viktor looks him up and down several times, taking his time.

“How do I look?” Yuuri asks to make the awkward silence disappear, and puts his hands on his hips, trying to look heroic. He regrets it immediately; if he looks as ridiculous as he feels, well, then it’s surprising Viktor isn’t wheezing with laughter at the sight. But Viktor doesn’t say anything, merely taps his fingers against his lips in concentration.

“Viktor?” Yuuri asks weakly.

“Something is missing,” Viktor mumbles.

“The helmet? Or the general aura of heroism surrounding duellists?” Yuuri jokes.

“No,” Viktor shakes his head and walks towards the chest, pulling a sword out of it.

“This.”

He looks at Yuuri expectantly, waiting for a reaction.

Yuuri stares at the sword, mouth agape and eyes wide. It’s not one of the simple training swords Yuuri had seen soldiers train with, or something old and battered like his own blade.  No, this is a real duelling sword, blade a pristine silver, and it’s one of the most beautiful things Yuuri has ever seen.

“You’re – you’re lending me this, right?” Yuuri breathes.

“No,” Viktor replies with twinkling eyes. “I had this made specifically for my next tournament. It’s only fair that I give it to you.”

“I cannot accept this,” Yuuri mutters. “But there’s no use in refusing it, right?”

“Nope. I’ll sneak this into your room while you sleep if you don’t take it now.”

Yuuri laughs breathlessly.

“You’re leaving me no other choice, then,” he says, taking the sword from Viktor’s hands. It’s a bit lighter than the heavy soldier’s sword he’s used to, but his hands find their way around the grip almost of their own accord and it feels like he’s never held a different blade.

“I cannot ever thank you enough for what you’ve done for me,” Yuuri mumbles shyly, moving the sword to his side.

“I’ll think of something,” Viktor says, with a wink that makes Yuuri blush all the way from his neck to the tip of his toes.

“Now, do you want to train for a bit?”

And that’s how Yuuri almost lets his newly acquired sword drop.

“What, now? In the middle of the night? Viktor, I’ve been up since almost eighteen hours – and I have to work tomorrow morning!”

“Fair point,” Viktor says with a pout. “But now you put on these clothes for no reason at all!”

“I thought you wanting to see me in them was reason enough,” Yuuri answers drily before the meaning of his words catches up with him. Viktor raises an eyebrow, grinning.

“I mean – that’s – I didn’t mean-“ he stutters, but Viktor only laughs.

“Apart from the obvious reason, I meant,” he says coyly.

“If we want to train now, we’ll need some light. I’ll just – get it,” Yuuri mumbles and turns around to hide his burning face from Viktor. The last thing he can hear before the door closes behind him is a low chuckle.

__

“Yurio, don’t forget to always hold your arms between you and your opponent,” Viktor says, not for the first time that day. “I know taking big swings is fun, but don’t neglect your defences.”

“Who needs defences when my opponent is a stupid coward?” Yuri growls and strikes at Yuuri again. “Remind me again why I’m the one who got the stupid nickname when I’m the more capable one?”

Training two people with the same name had been… confusing, to say the least. During their first training session, Viktor had called for Yuuri to take a step forward, resulting in both Yuris following the order and almost gutting each other in the process. The simplest solution had been resorting to nicknames – a solution Yuri wasn’t entirely happy with, but which spared them many near death experiences.

“Because you’re younger,” Viktor says, again not for the first time that day. “Yuuri, I know I just said having a good defence is mandatory, but try to be a bit more aggressive! Don’t let him push you into a corner!”

Concentrating on both Viktor’s words and Yuri’s hasty movements is hard, but Yuuri tries anyway. His next step is one forward, pushing Yuri backwards for a change.

“Yes, good, like that! Yurio, your arms!” Viktor calls. Yuuri thrives under Viktor’s compliments, yearning for more, and takes another step into Yuri’s space. He feints a blow to the left, but Yuri sees right through his bluff and blocks the attack.

“The next time you feint an attack, be quicker. You can’t allow yourself moments of indecisiveness. Very good block, Yurio!”

Suddenly Yuri’s movements are too fast, too blurry to see, and Yuuri feels something pulling on his ankle, something unfamiliar that shouldn’t be there. He has the mind to let his sword drop to catch his fall with his arms, but he still winces in pain when his back collides with the hard ground.

The tip of a sword is pressed against his Adams apple a second later.

“Yield,” Yuri says. He tries to sound as nonchalant as possible, but his heaving chest betrays him; the training is taking its toll on him just as much as it does on Yuuri.

“I yield,” Yuuri replies. Viktor claps.

“Well done, both of you!” he praises as he approaches them. He offers Yuuri a hand, which Yuuri gladly takes, and pulls him upwards into a standing position that finds Viktor chest to chest with him.

“Hi there,” he mumbles with a sly smirk.

“Hi,” Yuuri says back, smiling shyly, and he suddenly feels just as breathless as Yuri.

Behind them, Yuri gags.

“Seriously,” he says, voice deadpan, and Yuuri takes an embarrassed step away from Viktor. But even if he wanted to, he couldn’t will his smile away. He tears his eyes off Viktor’s face in favour of looking at Yuri, who is facing pointedly away from them.

“Yuri,” he says to get his attention. “Can – can you show me what you just did? All I know is that – one second I was standing and then… I wasn’t.”

“You fell,” Yuri offers. “That’s what it’s called when you’re standing and suddenly you’re not anymore.”

“Yuri…” Viktor warns, voice playful.

“Alright, alright,” Yuri rolls his eyes and turns the sword around in his hands, holding the blade between his hands and pointing the pommel at Yuuri. It reminds Yuuri of the technique Viktor had shown him, but the memory feels like a lifetime away.

“While you were taking a step back, I tripped you up with the crossguard.”

Yuuri feels the sensation of cold metal pressing against his ankle again. When Yuri pulls this time, he is prepared and jumps to the side, away from the makeshift trap.

“You need to be quick to turn your sword in your hands,” Viktor adds, ”and just as quick to turn it back around. If your opponent doesn’t stumble and you’re still holding your sword the wrong way, the counter-attack could very possibly end the fight.”

“Yes, yes, it’s risky, and dangerous, and whatnot,” Yuri says with a deep voice, supposedly mimicking Viktor’s. “Just like everything that isn’t simple back and forth, I get it.”

“Which doesn’t mean you can’t do it, you just need to be extra careful,” Viktor tells him with a smile. “Listen to your body about what you can and cannot do.”

It’s a sentence they’ve both heard more than a few times and Yuri rolls his eyes so hard that only the white of his eyes is visible for a moment. Yuuri smiles in sympathy.

“I won my first tournament with that move,” Viktor says, sounding lost in thought. “And I almost lost because of it.”

“What happened?” Yuuri asks.

“Nothing spectacular. I was fighting an elderly lord, clearly someone who was more experienced than me. I didn’t pace myself and was out of breath after only a few moments. My last resort was doing something no one would expect of me and I remembered seeing this move in an earlier tournament, so I tried it. I almost fell myself, but the other lord was so surprised he didn’t react – that’s the only reason why I won. We all have to start somewhere, I guess?”

Viktor’s face is slightly red from admitting his own past recklessness, and he smiles self-consciously as he looks at Yuuri from under his long eyelashes. Maybe it’s the way he looks at Yuuri that does it, or the exhilaration from the fight still running through Yuuri’s body, but Yuuri is absolutely and utterly overwhelmed with the sudden urge to lean in, to kiss that smile from Viktor’s lips and make his beautiful eyes widen in surprise. Yuuri had wanted to kiss Viktor before, but not this much, never this much, and he’s almost scared of himself and how much he wants it. 

“What a very touching story,” Yuri yawns. “Now, can we please get on with it?”

“Of course,” Viktor says. He shoots Yuuri one last private smile, completely oblivious to Yuuri’s thoughts, and turns around.

“Yuuri, Yurio, get back in position!”

__

“You know, I think you shouldn’t prance around the market place like this without any guards.”

“Why is that?” Phichit asks around a mouthful of shortcake.

“Maybe, just maybe, because you’re the future king, and if anyone wanted to assassinate you, this would be the perfect chance,” Yuuri says, looking around nervously. Phichit only laughs and puts an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Relaaaax, Yuuri,” he says. “I’m a better swordsman than most assassins will ever be. Besides, I’ve got Guang Hong and Leo.”

_Yeah, but they’re useless_ , Yuuri doesn’t say as he watches Phichit’s servants try on several ridiculous looking hats at a nearby stall.

“And I’ve got you!” Phichit smiles. “If there’s anyone I can trust with my life, it’s someone who got special training from Viktor Nikiforov. Speaking of…”

“No.” Yuuri cuts him off.

“I haven’t even said anything!”

“I know what you want to say and we are not having this conversation. Eat your shortcake.”

“Aww, come on,” Phichit moans. “You can’t tell me that you’ve spent the last two months with Viktor at that romantic little clearing of yours and he didn’t teach you how to firmly grasp your sword.”

“Phichit!” Yuuri hisses, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.

“Where is he, anyway?” Phichit ignores him. “He could have come with us.”

“Training with Yuri,” Yuuri says and shudders at the thought of Phichit and Viktor meeting again.

“Yuri…? Oh, yeah, the ward,” Phichit says. “Isn’t it annoying to have him cockblocking you all the time?”

“He’s not… _cockblocking_ … anything!” Yuuri whispers, now glad that Guang Hong and Leo are not around. Phichit only raises an eyebrow.

“Look,” Yuuri says. “Even if I were, hypothetically, a bit infatuated with Viktor…”

He has to stop because Phichit is laughing so hard.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He giggles at the sour look Yuuri gives him. “Go on with your very hypothetic scenario.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri mutters. “Like I said, even if I did like Viktor like that – why would he like me back? I mean, he’s a lord and one of the best duellists of the century and I’m just me.”

“Just to make sure, we are talking about the same guy, right? The one that abandoned his family and travelled to Asu just to teach you?”

“That’s not-“ Yuuri starts, but Phichit holds up a hand.

“Look, Yuuri,” he says. “I still don’t know what you did to him in Omere, even though I’d really, really like to know, by the way, but it made him follow you to a different country. He is here for you, and only for you, and even though I’m not the most experienced person when it comes to this I’m relatively sure this has to mean something.”

“What are you talking about?” Leo asks, suddenly appearing behind them and sparing Yuuri the burden of thinking of a reply. He and Guang Hong are wearing the most hideous hats Yuuri has ever seen, but Yuuri is thankful for their interruption so he doesn’t comment on it.

“Nothing,” Phichit says, shaking his head. “We were just discussing how daft Yuuri is sometimes.”

Guang Hong’s eyes light up.

“Oh! Is this about Lord Viktor?”

Yuuri groans and buries his head in his hands.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Yuuri! I think it’s a very romantic story; a nobleman falling for a commoner while he teaches him the ways of the blade…”

“And also how to polish a sword properly,” Leo adds.

“He _did_ teach me a special polishing technique. He also brought this special oil from Rus that prevents the blade from rusting and… that’s not what you meant by polishing swords,” Yuuri realizes, embarrassed. Phichit wheezes.

“Tell us more about these special oils, Yuuri.”

“I’m leaving. Goodbye.” Yuuri mutters and, walks away from his laughing friends.

__

With the tournament approaching, spare time becomes a foreign concept to Yuuri. He spends all his time training, with or without Yuri, or working at Yutopia. Even if he’d wanted to do anything else, he doesn’t have the energy to; as soon as he sheaths his sword or the last customer leaves, he feels a weariness like he’s never felt before spreading through his body, leaving him unable to do anything but climb the stairs and fall face-first into his bed, dead to the world until Viktor knocks on his door.

At least his daily schedule doesn’t leave any time for thinking about how badly he wants to reach out to touch Viktor whenever they’re standing close, or how much he’d like to kiss that stupid grin off his face.

“I made this sake myself,” Toshiya says proudly, taking the empty tray from their table. “I always wanted to save this one for a special occasion – and which occasion is better than my boy leaving for his first tournament?”

Yuuri ducks his head and thanks his father with a shy smile. He can’t help but notice the stressed look on Mari’s face as she rushes by, and suppresses the urge to jump up to help her – his family had insisted on him celebrating his upcoming tournament, even though there was nothing to celebrate yet. And maybe there wouldn’t be after his return.

Viktor is very obviously past caring; his cheeks are flushed, the redness spreading all the way down to his throat and disappearing behind his collar. Yuuri doesn’t dare imagine how far the flush goes – he wills himself not to.

Viktor’s movements are sluggish, except for when they are surprisingly fast for a drunk person, for example, when he grabs for Yuuri’s arm to pull him closer towards his chest.

“It’s really…” Viktor hiccups, opening the top button of his dress shirt and yes, he’s flushed there, too. “… good!”

“You’re going to regret it tomorrow if you don’t stop drinking now,” Yuuri chides.

“As long as he doesn’t barf in the carriage,” Yuri mutters, nursing his own watered down ale.

“You’re both no fun!” Viktor whines, pointing at them. “No! Fun! Can’t you let an old man enjoy his drink?”

“Viktor,” Yuuri sighs with exasperated fondness. “You’re only four years older than me.”

“Still pretty old, if you ask me,” Yuri says, grinning at Yuuri. Yuuri mirrors the grin and they smile at each other, before Yuri seems to realize that he is showing something akin to friendliness and he hides his face behind his mug again, looking pointedly away.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Viktor hisses, looking between them. “You’re ganging up on me.”

“Trust me, we are most definitely not,” Yuri assures him, but Viktor ignores it.

“Or!” he gasps, looking like he just had an epiphany. “You decided you’re both tired of me and don’t need me anymore?”

His voice hitches at the end of the sentence. Great, Yuuri thinks. An affectionate, exhibitionistic and crying drunk, all at once.

“We still need you,” Yuuri says and Viktor beams. “Without you, we’d have no one to train us.”

His face falls again.

“So mean,” he whispers. “I had no idea you could be so mean, Yuuri. After all I did to make you like me.”

Mari, who is refilling the mugs of two elderly women sitting next to them, grins slyly.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” she says. “Tell us, Viktor, what did you do to make Yuuri like you?”

“Mari, don’t-“ Yuuri says, but it’s too late. Viktor throws both his arms around Yuuri, petting his hair absent-mindedly with one hand.

“Let’s see,” he says. “For a start, I’m training him. I also showed him my dog, and I gave him gifts. What else… I hug him a lot, too! And then I tell him how great he is, because he really -hmpf!”

Yuuri slams his hand over Viktor’s mouth. If someone were to ask him, he’d blame the redness of his face on the heat in the crowded room.

“That’s disgusting,” Yuri scoffs.

“That’s adorable,” Mari says, and winks. “But don’t forget to tell him how amazing he is in the future, too.”

Viktor says something else, but Yuuri is still effectively holding his mouth shut and Mari leaves them, still grinning.

As soon as she is out of earshot, Yuuri pulls his hand away. Viktor, who has apparently forgotten about how he’d called Yuuri mean not one minute ago, beams brighter than all the candles and witch lights in the room, and snuggles even closer to Yuuri – Yuuri, who is currently considering getting just as shit-faced as his teacher, if only to survive said teacher.

“That’s it,” Yuri declares, pushing his chair back. “I am officially leaving, I don’t need to see this.”

“Will you at least help me to get him upstairs and into bed?”

If looks could kill, Yuuri would be dead on the spot.

“I will not. Enter a room that has you, Viktor and a bed in it,” he says, voice stone cold. “Goodnight.”

And with that he turns around, his long coat fluttering behind him dramatically (Yuuri is pretty sure he only owns the coat for this effect.)

“Goodnight, Yuri!” Viktor calls after him and with waves both his arms. “Sleep well! And nice dreams!”

“Fuck you!”

“Come on, Viktor,” Yuuri sighs. “You need to sleep, too.”

“But Yuuuuuuri,” Viktor whines and tightens his grip around Yuuri’s waist. “My bed is so, so cold! And you’re so warm! Oh, I have an idea – why don’t you get into bed with me?”

“L-let’s just get you upstairs,” Yuuri says, ignoring the way his heart hammers against his chest. He pushes himself out of his chair, which is quite a feat since Viktor is still holding onto him with the desperation of a drowning man.

“You have to help me a bit, you know,” Yuuri says with the patience of a saint. Reluctantly, Viktor pushes himself on his feet, swaying a bit.

“Wheee,” he laughs, clinging to Yuuri for support. “Everything is so… shaky.”

“It will get better once you’re in bed,” Yuuri promises. They slowly take on the challenge that is ascending the stairs and Yuuri feels reminded of the time he dragged Viktor’s trunk up there with Makkachin dancing around his legs. This time, Makkachin isn’t there, but Viktor’s wriggling makes up for it. It takes them several minutes to reach Viktor’s room.

“Your key, Viktor,” Yuuri says after a long moment of just staring at the closed door.

“I don’t know where it is,” Viktor slurs.

“It’s in your shirt pocket. I can see it.”

“Huh?”

Viktor looks down at himself and almost staggers backwards into a wall in the process. A sly smirk that looks way to sober in contrast to his drunk demeanour spreads on his face. “I don’t see it. Seems like you have to get it for me.”

Yuuri bristles, but reaches into his pocket.

“You are…” he mutters.

“Lovely? Handsome? Talented? Wonderful?” Viktor supplies. Yuuri grabs the key and unlocks the door.

“I was thinking of something along the lines of _insufferable_ ,” he replies, and drags Viktor into the room with him. Under his breath, he adds, “But yeah, the other things, too.”

“Oh?” Viktor smirks as he staggers into the room. “You think I’m handsome?”

Yuuri’s ears are burning.

“Who doesn’t?”

“Fair point,” Viktor replies, and laughs when Yuuri hits him in the shoulder, rolling his eyes.

“But you also think I’m…” Viktor takes a step closer, backing Yuuri up against the closed door. “Lovely?”

The very not-lovely smell of alcohol hits Yuuri in the face, and he feels a bit drunk, too.

“S-sometimes,” he stutters. “When you’re not talking and just looking pretty.”

“My, how cruel you are tonight,” Viktor comments. He looks Yuuri up and down, gaze finally coming to a halt at Yuuri’s lips. Yuuri can’t help himself; he licks them automatically before he knows what he is doing, not missing the way Viktor’s pupils dilate. Somewhere, the noise of a breaking mug and laughter can be heard, but it is far, far away from them; the room is on a completely different plane of reality, sealed off from the world and its inhabitants.

Finally, finally, Viktor looks up, his eyes meeting Yuuri’s, and this time everything stops. All that Yuuri had been trying to conceal over the past weeks, all the desire and the pure, unabashed want he had so carefully hidden from Viktor, is now laid bare in his eyes for all the world to see, and from the way Viktor’s eyes widen, Yuuri knows that he sees it, that he feels it.

Instead of leaning in like Yuuri wants, like Viktor knows Yuuri wants, Viktor reaches for Yuuri’s left hand and pulls it up to his lips to press a lingering kiss on the palm of his hand.

“Goodnight, Yuuri,” he murmurs against Yuuri’s skin before he takes a step away from him. The vibration of Viktor’s voice sends a tingling feeling up Yuuri’s left arm and it spreads, until it settles low in his gut. His heart races, the way it does only after a long day of training.

“Goodnight,” he replies. The sound of his own voice startles him; it’s deep and sounds utterly wrecked. 

His eyes never leaving Viktor’s, he opens the door behind him. The last thing Yuuri sees before the door falls closed with a clicking sound is Viktor running a hand through his hair, eyes shut close and lips pressed into a tight line.

__

“Remember, Yuuri,” his mother tells him the following morning. “Whatever happens, we’re so very, very proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he mutters quietly, avoiding her gaze.

“There is no shame in losing,” she says and squeezes his hands one last time before she lets go of them and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. 

_There is also no shame in winning,_ he thinks, and the thought feels oddly familiar, but he can’t quite put his finger on why.

“Ready?” Viktor asks when Yuuri approaches the carriage. Yuri is already inside, stretching out on one of the benches like a cat and petting Makkachin. 

_No_ , Yuuri thinks.

“Yes,” he says.

__

Their carriage comes to a halt in front of a tavern in a small village – if the ten houses Yuuri can see could be called that – right at the border to Eurys. Yuri gets out first, groaning as he stretches his limbs.

“We would have been so much faster if we would’ve taken horses,” he tells them. “You still could have sent all your crappy stuff with the carriage. I don’t see why you insisted on us sharing this cramped piece of shit for three days.”

The coachman screws up his nose at the insult and Yuuri tries to put on his best apologetic smile. Viktor had ordered an absolutely outlandish carriage for them, carried by the best horses in all of Theussa, if not even all of Asu – at least according to the coachman. Being insulted by a noble like this must hurt his feelings, but a quick look to Viktor’s full pouch seems to convince him to not speak up. He looks away from them, though, before he walks the horses and the coach to the nearby stables.

“We’re in no rush,” Viktor reassures him. “And we can enjoy the beautiful scenery like this much better. Right, Yuuri?”

Yuuri nods furiously, trying to take in all the impressions at once, but it’s impossible. The sea is a constant companion on their journey, stretching out to distant lands on the horizon. When he turns his back to it he is facing mountains so high they are touching the clouds. Through the window of the carriage, Yuuri had been able to watch the hilly countryside of Asu grow into the mountain rage of Eurys that served as the border between the two countries nowadays.

 

Yuuri had seen them before, when he had went to the coronation with Phichit, but he firmly believes seeing them for the hundredth time will still take his breath away.

“Besides,” Viktor says, “I can’t take Makkachin with me on a horse and I wouldn’t feel comfortable with leaving him behind.”

The dog in question jumps out of the carriage, seeming relieved to set his paws on solid ground again. Yuri rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment on it. Even though he would probably never admit it, Yuuri thinks Yuri is quite fond of the dog.

“You wanna go in or… ?” Yuri asks, as neither Yuuri nor Viktor give any indication of wanting to move inside the tavern. Viktor shares a look with Yuuri, and shakes his head.

“You go inside and see if they still have enough rooms. Makkachin needs his walk.”

Yuri throws his hands up in surrender and waltzes towards the tavern, muttering “I don’t even want to know…” beneath his breath. As soon as he closes the door behind him, Viktor links arms with Yuuri.

“Walk with me for a bit?” he asks shyly. Yuuri ducks his head and smiles before he sets into motion, gripping Viktor’s arm tightly, and Makkachin bounces along to their sides. With the approaching darkness comes a serene quietness that falls over the village like a blanket. Despite the tournament, Yuuri can’t remember a time when he has ever felt this calm, this at peace.

“They’re gorgeous, aren’t they?” Viktor asks. Yuuri looks up from where he had been watching Makkachin and follows Viktor’s gaze to the mountains. A single star appears in the clear night sky, the first of many, and the way it twinkles reminds Yuuri of the gemstones adorning the pommel of his sword.

“And these are only the outskirts,” Viktor continues without waiting for a reply. “From Rus, you’ll be able to see the highest mountain in all of Eurys, Perun. It’s said the god of thunder lives up there.”

“I didn’t know you believe in gods,” Yuuri replies. He doesn’t know much about the religion of Eurys; he can barely remember all of the Asurian gods.

“Why not?” Viktor shrugs. “It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Some sort of protectors, watching over us, wherever we are. Whatever we do. And who can say, really?”

“It _is_ a nice thought.” Yuuri hums in agreement. Then, his grip around Viktor’s arm tightens. “Do you- do you think, even if I’m not from here… do you think they will watch over me, too? During the tournament?”

Viktor turns his head, looking at Yuuri with wonder in his eyes, the setting sun reflecting in them, and Yuuri immediately feels stupid for asking.

“Nevermind,” he says quickly. “It was a silly question. I have my own gods, after all.”

“Oh no Yuuri, not at all!” Viktor interjects, sounding fond. “I am certain that Lada is watching over you.”

“Lada?” he asks. It sounds new and unfamiliar in his mouth, but while he says it, he can feel the importance the name bears.

“Is she a warrior goddess?” he asks. Viktor’s eyes sparkle with mischief and he smiles secretively.

“I guess you could call her that,” he says, slipping out of Yuuri’s hold to turn around. “We should get back to the tavern before it gets dark. I bet Yuri is growing impatient.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri moans and runs after him, trying to get anything more about Lada out of Viktor, but Viktor’s lips on the matter stay shut.

__

When he asks Yuri later, the young boy rolls his eyes.

“Please leave me out of this,” he growls, and Yuuri doesn’t dare to ask any more questions.

__

Yuuri stays calm when the outskirts of Rus can be seen through the small window. He also stays calm when the carriage rolls onto the castle grounds, and several important looking people usher outside and talk to Viktor and Yuri in a language Yuuri doesn’t understand. He stays calm when their glances fall on him, and when their eyes widen as they see the sword at his hips. He is still calm when an elderly, balding man approaches and screams at both Yuri and Viktor in the same unfamiliar language and gives Yuuri a glare that would make a soldier cower in fear. But not Yuuri, because Yuuri is calm.

At least that’s what he’s trying to tell himself to ward off the oncoming thoughts of pure panic. He wants to crawl back into the carriage and hide, maybe bury his head in Makkachin’s fur, but it’s already too late for that and he can now only watch awkwardly as the man shouts at Yuri and Viktor (who both seem completely unfazed by it) some more while the discomfort inside of him grows.

His saviour appears in the form of a woman.

“Hello,” a pleasant voice next to him says. Startled, he turns around to find himself face to face with a woman whose hair is the colour of fire. Yuuri has never seen anything like it.

“You speak the common tongue, don’t you?” she asks with an accent and Yuuri nods. “Viktor warned me that something like this would happen and asked me to rescue you before Yakov decides to take his anger out on you.”

“Yes, please,” Yuuri whimpers, figuring that Yakov must be the angry man.

“Wait a second, I’ll be right back,” she giggles, and disappears again. She doesn’t give Yuuri much time to panic, though; it takes her less than a minute to reappear at his side, this time with Makkachin in tow.

“Viktor said you might appreciate his presence,” she winks before she pulls him down the corridor. “In fact, he said a very many things about you in his letters. I must show them to you some time.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says. “But I don’t know who you are.”

The woman pouts.

“Has he never mentioned his favourite cousin Mila?”

“You’re Mila!” Yuuri replies in surprise, suddenly feeling quite dumb. Mila’s whole face lightens up.

“So he _has_ mentioned me! Come on now, this way. We’re almost there.”

Mila leads Yuuri around a corner and down another corridor, until they come to a halt in front of a large, wooden door. She produces a pair of keys and unlocks the door, leading Yuuri inside.

“This is your room,” she says, spreading her arms. Yuuri’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” he breathes.

If he’d wanted to, he could probably train in this room without having to worry about knocking things over with his sword - that is how large the room is. The centre piece is a four-poster bed that is big enough to fit Yuuri’s whole family. Apart from the door through which they had entered the room there are two more, one of them probably leading to the wash room and the other made out of glass, revealing a spacious balcony.

“Are you sure this room is for me?” he can’t help but ask. He takes a step closer to the window, eyes roaming above the breath-taking view.

Behind him, Mila laughs.

“And again Viktor predicted you’d say this,” she says. “And yes, this is for you. Viktor insisted on you staying here and nowhere else.”

She frowns and folds her arms in front of her chest.

“Don’t you like it?”

“N-no!” Yuuri quickly holds up his hands. “I love it! It… it’s just a lot for a commoner, don’t you think?”

The crease between her brows deepens as she scrutinizes him and taps her fingers against her lips in a familiar manner.

“Hm, yes, one would say so,” she says. “But measured by the way Viktor talks about you in his letters, you are not just a commoner to him, no?”

Yuuri splutters, but she holds up a finger and laughs before he can answer.

“No, don’t answer, it’s none of my business. Besides, I’m afraid I don’t have the time for gossip. Another time, maybe. Will you be okay if I leave you alone for a while?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he replies, rubbing his arm absently.

“I’m sure Viktor will be here soon,” she assures him with a kind smile, curtsying politely. “It was very nice to meet you. And I look forward to seeing you in the tournament.”

“You too,” Yuuri says with an answering smile. “I mean, it was nice to meet you. I don’t look forward to seeing you in the – unless you are competing?”

“Unfortunately not, as most tournaments are still for men,” she sighs with an eye roll. “But maybe some things will change with you around.”

She waves before she pulls the door shut behind her, leaving Yuuri alone with Makkachin and his thoughts. He exhales shakily and lets himself sink to the marble floor to rub Makkachin behind the ears and his thoughts seem to wander.

For a long time now he has successfully suppressed the thought that all of this might not be the best idea, but now that he is alone in a foreign country, the thoughts are resurfacing again, hitting him with full force. Viktor might say he doesn’t care whether or not Yuuri loses, but it isn’t just Viktor’s reputation at stake, is it? What will his family say, how will they react, if Yuuri drops his sword out of fear in the first fight? He thinks of Mila’s words, and how she, too, seems to be confident in his abilities, but what if they’re wrong? He’s just Yuuri, after all.

Normally, he would try to fight the intrusive thoughts by wielding a sword until his body screamed loud enough to drown them out, but wielding a sword is what got him into this situation in the first place. And so his thoughts start circling, fixating on all the buts and what ifs…

He buries his face in Makkachin’s fur and the dog whines questioningly, but the sound barely gets through to Yuuri. He hugs his legs close and lets the tears spill free, lets the weeks of bottled-up tension seep out of his body.

It helps. It doesn’t make the thoughts go away, but it makes them quieter, less painful. With every escaping sob the word shifts back into view and everything becomes a little bit less frightening.

The doorknob turns. Yuuri rubs furiously at his face, trying to hide the fact that he’s been crying, but it’s no use; even if he manages to wipe all the tearstains away in time, his red and blotchy face would give him away immediately. A childish thought creeps into his mind and he buries his face in Makkachin’s fur again; if he can’t see the person entering the room, they can’t see him. The gasped, “Yuuri!” tells him that his way of hiding isn’t working and he curls even more into himself.

Someone kneels down in front of him and two hands settle on his shoulders.

“Yuuri, are you okay?”

It’s clear now the voice belongs to Viktor and Yuuri doesn’t know if he should be relieved by that.

“I’m fine,” Yuuri mumbles. “Go away.”

“I will if you want me to,” Viktor says and it’s unfair, unfair, _unfair_ how gentle his voice is, how caring he sounds, when he should be annoyed. “But I would hate to leave you like this.”

Yuuri looks up. His eyes are swollen, snot is running down his face, his glasses are slightly askew and he must look like an ugly mess. This is why it shocks him down to the bone to see that Viktor isn’t looking at him with pity in his eyes, or disgust, or anything the like… but with concern and understanding.

It makes Yuuri want to cry even more.

“Hey there,” Viktor says gently, rubbing gentle circles across his back.

“Hi,” Yuuri says and snuffles soundly.

Viktor doesn’t say anything, but pulls him into a tight embrace. Makkachin whines softly from where he is trapped between the two bodies and wriggles out of the grasp.

“Sorry about that,” Yuuri says as he returns the hug. “I should have warned you that this was going to happen eventually.”

“No no no no Yuuri!” Viktor protests and grabs him by the shoulders, bringing them face to face again. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have left you after a welcome like that, or I should have warned you, at the least. It was rather selfish to use you as my surprise without taking into account how you might be feeling about this.”

“Well,” Yuuri says with a shrug, not disagreeing. “What’s done is done.”

“It’s not that simple,” Viktor sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“I hurt you. I shouldn’t have. And I want you to know that if you don’t want to fight…”

“I do!” Yuuri exclaims before Viktor finishes his sentence. “I really, really do. But I am also really, really scared of how people will react.”

“I’m not going to lie to you about this, Yuuri, some of them will want to see you fail,” Viktor says. “But you will prove them wrong. It’s me who trained you, after all.”

Yuuri laughs quietly at that and punches Viktor in the shoulder. When he wants to pull his hand back, Viktor catches it, long fingers circling his wrist, and he pulls Yuuri back into a hug. Yuuri sighs, burrowing his face in Viktor’s chest and inhaling his scent.

“You know, if, and that is a very big if, you should fail,” Viktor mumbles into his hair, lips brushing against his forehead, “it won’t make any difference. People will talk, but they will move on. And I won’t think any different of you; I know exactly what you are capable of.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri mutters, just realizing how much he’d needed to hear this. “I really feel better now.”

“I’m glad,” Viktor says, continuing to rub soothing patterns across Yuuri’s back. “Do you want me to show you around?”

Yuuri thinks about the looks he had gotten the second he had left the carriage, and his stomach twists in an unpleasant way.

“Later?” he asks. “I’d rather not show my face to your family while I still look like a snotty tomato.”

Viktor laughs softly and nods.

“Anything.”

__

One day before the tournament, Viktor gives him the promised tour through the manor of House Nikiforov. To Yuuri’s surprise, he isn’t met with hostility, but welcomed with open arms by everyone. Even Yakov, who Yuuri learns is Viktor’s sword fighting teacher, shakes his hand and says, “Hope you do well tomorrow” through gritted teeth. According to Viktor, that’s almost a love declaration.

Their tour ends in the east wing of the castle in front of a locked door.

“I want to show you something,” Viktor says, nervously shifting his gaze back and forth between Yuuri and the door. “But you have to promise me not to laugh.”

“Of course not,” Yuuri replies without hesitation. “What do you take me for?”

At that Viktor only smiles, small but soft, before he unlocks the door. Behind it lies a spiral staircase and Viktor leads him all the way upstairs. Once they reach the top of what Yuuri presumes is a small tower, there’s another door blocking their path. Viktor hesitates.

“You once told that this clearing in the forest used to be your hiding spot whenever you wanted to be alone,” Viktor says, and reaches for the doorknob. “I have a spot like that, too, and I thought it’s only fair that I show it to you.”

The door swings open, revealing a room that can’t be larger than Yuuri’s small bedroom at Yutopia. It’s cold, the brittle walls not being able to shield its insides from the harsh mountain wind, and the only piece of furniture is an armchair, a blanket draped across the backrest. It’s positioned in front of the only window which looks out to the sea where the setting sun kisses the sky goodbye before it disappears on the horizon.

“I used to come here and watch the ocean for hours every time… things got too much,” Viktor says, walking towards the window. “I thought you could use some quiet before tomorrow.”

Yuuri crosses the room to stand next to Viktor, their shoulders brushing.

“Thank you for showing me,” he says earnestly. Viktor grabs his hand and squeezes it in response.

“The only other person who knows about this is Yuri,” he tells him. “I think my parents have pretty much forgotten this tower even exists.”

From where Yuuri is looking at the sea, he can feel Viktor watching him. He realizes how close they are standing and he tenses; every muscle in Yuuri’s body is strung like a bow and he feels incapable of moving his head. He stares at the waves instead, crashing against the shore and dissolving into foam. It’s calming despite his inner turmoil.

“Viktor…” he says, testing if his voice at least still works. It does, if just barely. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Viktor replies, and squeezes his hand again.

“That… night, at Yutopia,” he says. The hitch in Viktor’s breath tells him he doesn’t need to clarify. “Did – did you want to kiss me?”

“Yes,” Viktor says immediately. “Very much.”

Closing his eyes, Yuuri lets out a shuddery breath. And takes a leap.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was inebriated and I didn’t want you to think it was a drunken mistake on my side.”

When Yuuri finally finds the strength to turn his head, Viktor is still watching him with curiosity in his eyes, as if he’s trying to figure out where this conversation is going. Truth be told, Yuuri doesn’t know himself.

“Would it have been? A mistake?” Yuuri presses, and feels the hand around his wrist tighten.

“None of my decisions involving you have been a mistake, Yuuri,” he scolds. “You should know that.”

“Then - if you are not drunk right now and- and still want to. Kiss me, I mean,” Yuuri stutters, heart beating so fast now that surely Viktor must be able to hear it and how it’s screaming at Viktor to please put Yuuri out of his longing misery. “Why aren’t you kissing me now?”

Despite of everything Viktor just said, everything he did, Yuuri still thinks he misinterpreted the situation when Viktor’s eyes widen in surprise. Only when Viktor kisses him, really kisses him this time, Yuuri thinks, _Oh, he does like me as much as I like him._

The way Viktor kisses him makes Yuuri’s toes curl in his shoes; it’s unhurried and gentle with feelings poured into every press of lips and Yuuri can only take while Viktor gives and gives and gives, until Yuuri feels like he is overflowing with emotion.

“That was my first kiss,” Yuuri whispers when they break apart. He discovers that his hands have snuck their way around Viktor’s hips on their own accord, holding Viktor close.

“Yeah?” Viktor smiles against his lips. “In that in case, as your teacher I must insist you practise some more.”

Yuuri reddens, but can’t fight the laughter bubbling up in his throat.

“You think you can make me an expert?” he asks.

“Oh, absolutely,” Viktor replies and leans in again.

__

“Oi, piggy!”

Yuri enters the tent, walking past two befuddled-looking guards who shoot Viktor a questioning look. Viktor waves them off and they nod, turning back around swiftly.

“Good morning, Yuri,” Yuuri greets, stretching out his leg for Viktor to fasten the buckles of his armour. Yuri rolls his eyes at them.

“Don’t we have servants for that?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“We do, but I quite like doing this.”

“Enjoy being on your knees?” Yuri scoffs and raises and eyebrow. The corner of Viktor’s mouth twitches.

“I wouldn’t have put it so crudely, but that’s precisely what I like about it,” he replies smoothly, making both Yuris turn red, for completely different reasons.

“Gross,” Yuri comments. “I didn’t come by to hear your flirting.”

He turns to Yuuri and flicks a strand of hair out of his face, pretending to look as bored as possible.

“I wanted to tell you that, if you ended up having to fight against me out there, you wouldn’t stand a chance. Since I’m not old enough, though… you might not die in the first round.”

Yuuri sees the compliment for what it is and smiles brightly at Yuri, who looks away with a caught expression on his face.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. “Coming from you, this means a lot.”

“But know this!” Yuri splutters. “If we are ever to face each other in a tournament, I am going to wipe the floor with you. Do you understand?”

“Completely.” Yuuri nods with a sincere look on his face. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Yuri looks him up and down once more, rolling his eyes when they land on Viktor, who has now moved on to clothing Yuuri’s other leg, and looks back up again to meet Yuuri’s eyes.

“Break a leg. Or two,” he says, before he turns around to leave the tent, not waiting for a reply.

“Aw Yuuri, I think he was trying to say that he likes you!” Viktor coos.

“Was not!” Yuri yells from outside, making them both giggle.

“So, Yuuri…” Viktor says, giving the armour a onceover before he lightly pats Yuuri’s arm, looking pleased with his handiwork.

“Are you ready?”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri admits. “I feel like I should be nervous; I know I should be nervous but… I’m not? And that terrifies me, to be honest. Maybe I am nervous and I don’t know it? Do I seem nervous?” he babbles.

“A bit,” Viktor laughs. “But there is something different about you today. You seem more… confident.”

Viktor beams.

“It’s a good look on you.”

Before Yuuri can reply, his cheeks darkening at the compliment, the sound of a fanfare signals them to hurry up with their preparations.

“I don’t even know who I’m up against,” Yuuri says, playing nervously with the helmet in his hands.

“Just some lower lords who are trying to impress my father for money. Absolutely nothing to worry about,” Viktor assures him. “Maybe look out for Georgi. His fiancée… ex-fiancée, a lady from a duchy in the north of Rus, apparently called off their wedding. I hear he’s very upset about it and he’s known for putting his feelings into his fighting.”

“Good to know,” Yuuri mutters, now definitely feeling nervous. “Anything else I should know about?”

“You’ll be fine!” Viktor promises, sensing Yuuri’s discomfort. “Fight them like you fought Yuri and no one will be able to touch you.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says quietly, taking off his glasses to put on the helmet. “For your confidence in me. And everything else. I don’t think you know how much it means to me.”

Viktor leans forward and plants a kiss on top of Yuuri’s helmet.

“Just show these uptight arses that a commoner can beat them anytime,” he whispers. Yuuri smiles, soft and affectionate, but the smile is hidden beneath his helmet.

“I will,” he promises. Then he exits the tent, leaving Viktor and all – _some_ of his worries behind. As he walks past the stands and approaches the fighting grounds, he can hear faint gasps and whispers from everywhere. Even though his face is hidden, it is obvious that he is not their Lord Viktor: his frame is smaller, slimmer around the waist, and black hair is sticking out from beneath the helmet. And yet it is clearly the emblem of House Nikiforov adorning his armour, right in the centre of his chest, for all the world to see.

He takes his place between the other duellists, waiting for the fight to begin.

“Don’t fuck this up!” someone who sounds suspiciously like Yuri yells from the stands, and Yuuri’s lips curl into another smile. When his name is announced, he walks onto the fighting ground, bowing to his opponent in a respectful manner, just like Viktor had taught him, and gets into position.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

And the fight begins.

__

No one is more surprised than Yuuri when he finds himself face to face with Georgi in the final fight. What surprises him even more is that the crowd, while suspicious at first, is cheering his name now with such fervour that Yuuri can’t even hear the way their colliding swords sing. 

Viktor was right to warn Yuuri about Georgi; the man swings his sword at Yuuri with the abandon of someone who’s got nothing left to lose, and while he leaves several openings for Yuuri to attack, Yuuri is too busy trying to evade his blows.

Georgi’s sword swings past right in front of his eyes and Yuuri stumbles backwards, too startled to keep his balance, and falls. He manages to catch his fall with his elbows, but now Georgi is standing right above him, the sun in his back, and Yuuri would appreciate the dramatic flair it gives him if he weren’t at Georgi’s mercy.

Instead of landing the final blow, like Yuuri expects him too, Georgi turns around to the stands, where the spectators are holding their breaths, and calls, “This is for you, Anya!”

Yuuri doesn’t hesitate. This moment, albeit short, is all Yuuri needs to turn the sword in his hands, gripping the blade instead of the pommel, and he sneaks the crossguard around Georgi’s ankle.

And then he pulls.

__

“Their faces!” Viktor says again, laughing. “Did you see their faces?”

“I did not, since I was lying on the ground without my glasses,” Yuuri replies, also again, but he can’t stop an answering grin of his own.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor lifts him off the ground and twirls. “They were surprised after the first fight, but after you won the second? And third? And fourth? They were _shocked.”_

He laughs again, planting wet kisses all over Yuuri’s face.

“Even my father was impressed. No, better – even Yakov was impressed! And he’s hardly impressed by anything.”

“He didn’t look impressed,” Yuuri says, remembering the grim looking man standing next to Viktor, the only giveaway that he was feeling anything at all a twitching eyebrow.

“He’s bad at showing emotions,” Viktor waves him off. “But trust me, I’ve known him for all my life and he certainly was impressed.”

Viktor laughs again and kisses Yuuri on the lips, deep and lingering. When they part, Yuuri is swooning and his lips are tingling.

“Yuri…” Yuuri struggles to say, but his voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yuri promised to destroy me as soon as he is allowed to compete.”

“Oh, he will try. And then he’ll start a war with the king. We’ve got interesting times ahead of us.” Viktor smirks. “We definitely need to visit him for his 16th birthday.”

“When is it?” Yuuri asks, before the realization of what Viktor just said sinks in.

“Next year, in spring. So we’ve still got plenty of time to prepare for a war,” Viktor laughs to himself. When his eyes land on Yuuri again, his face falls.

“Yuuri, what’s wrong? Did I say something?” he asks, voice laced with worry.

“You -  you said we. We need to visit him. But you…”

“Oh,” Viktor lets out an embarrassed huff. “Well. Yeah. I knew there was something I’d forgotten to ask.”

The smile turns sheepish and he looks at Yuuri from beneath his eyelashes.

“I would like to return to Theussa with you. To coach you, properly. I know you want to give my father’s – no, _your_ prize money to your sister so she can train under a witch or wizard, but it’s more than enough for the both of you. So maybe your parents can hire someone who works in your stead? So we’d also have more time to train? Only if you want to, of course.”

“You’ve thought this through,” Yuuri says hoarsely.

“Well, I just assumed that I would return with you,” Viktor says, looking nervous all of sudden. Yuuri’s grip around his hand tightens. “If… if that’s alright with you?”

There are so many things he wants to say. He wants to point out that Viktor is leaving Yuri behind once again, or that he’s going to be the Lord of House Nikiforov today, which means he cannot just leave with Yuuri because it pleases him, and he’s already 27 and should probably settle down with someone who has a title, and someone who can give him a spouse.

He doesn’t say any of these things in the end. The thought of Viktor kissing someone else makes him nauseous and he feels guilty for it, for taking Viktor from the world and keeping him to himself, but the selfish need to hold Viktor tight and never let him go is stronger, and instead of pushing he pulls.

“I want you to stay with me,” he says firmly. He wants to say it again, for all the world to hear, to make them know that it was him who stole Viktor from them – and that he doesn’t intend to give him back.

Viktor’s response is immediate; the crease in his brow disappears and the corners of his lips turn upwards, stretching into a brilliant smile that is reserved for Yuuri, and only Yuuri.

“I will,” Viktor promises. “As long as you will have me.”

“You say that now,” Yuuri only half-jokes. “Let’s see how long it takes until you’re annoyed by me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Viktor murmurs before he draws Yuuri into a kiss.

And Yuuri doesn’t fully believe him, but he wants to. And maybe that’s a start.

__

“By the way,” Yuri, who is more inebriated than appropriate for his age, says later that night at the banquet with an expression of disgust on his face. “And I’m only telling you this because you won and you earned the right to know: If you still haven’t figured it out, Lada is the goddess of love. Don’t ever ask me again. And don’t look at Viktor like that, it’s gross.”

__

**“There may be hundred stances and sword positions, but you win with just one.”  
\- Yagyū Munenori**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perun and Lada are, if [Wikipedia ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Slavic_mythological_figures) is to be trusted, actual Slavic mythological figures. Perun is the god of thunder and lightning (so basically Russian Thor) and Lada is, among other things, the goddess of love and beauty.
> 
> Yagyū Munenori was an extraordinary japanese swordsman and while the world building in this fic is very European I thought it only appropriate to end it with a quote from someone Japanese. 
> 
> Thank you for reading ♥


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